Fractus
by drdit92
Summary: Post 47 Seconds. What happens when their inability to communicate pushes Kate past the limits of endurance? *My entry for 2015 Summer Hiatus Ficathon and #CastleFanFicMonday NO major character death and there will be a Caskett happily ever after. Promise. Trigger warnings for severe angst and suicidal thoughts. Rated M for sexual content and mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

**FRACTUS**

 **Set post 47 Seconds.**

 **This story is completely written and edited. There are 12 chapters total. Will post every 3-4 days until complete. Entry for the 2015 Castle Summer Hiatus Ficathon.**

 **Rated M for sexual content and mature themes. Trigger warning for severe angst and suicidal ideations (thoughts/plans).**

 **Since it is complete, I can promise you that there is NO major (or minor) character death and there WILL be a Caskett happily ever after. It just may not _seem_ like it's possible for most of the story.**

* * *

I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!

And yet when thou art absent I am sad;

And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,

Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,

Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me:

And often in my solitude I sigh

That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,

I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)

Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone

Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,

With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,

Between me and the midnight heaven arise,

Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!

Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;

And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,

Because they see me gazing where thou art.

-Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton

* * *

Three weeks. Less than a month. It didn't seem like a long time, in the grand scheme of things, but to him it represented the pinnacle of his pretensions…and now the deepest despair. Three weeks. Plenty of time to encompass enough heartache to last a lifetime.

He was sitting in his office, glass of whiskey in one hand, half empty bottle his only company for the night. His mother was out…nothing unusual there…and Alexis was off doing something productive. Studying, or preparing to study. It didn't matter: his only child was predictable in her inherent drive to succeed.

He swirled the light amber liquid in his glass, idly observing the light refracting off the surface. The whiskey did little to quench the bubbling anger and anguish, but it did numb the pain slightly. Helped form a protective scar over his emotions. Something he badly needed.

Three weeks ago he'd been drinking as well, wanting to forget all about being patient and supportive. He'd overindulged, but at the time was too wound up to care.

They'd just closed the Odette/Fauxdette case. Had caught the family financial advisor, Lynchberg, in his web of lies. Afterwards, he'd been reflecting on the power of dreams in their life. Kate…Beckett…had asked him what he was doing as he'd been staring at a picture of Barbara.

" _I was just thinking about how we rely on dreams to keep us going in life and how sad it is when they become the things that tear us down."_

He'd had no idea at the time how prophetic his own words would be. Kat…Beckett…had told him about her dream of becoming a Supreme Court Justice, and he'd felt his heart beat a little faster as he'd watched her, lost in the memories of little Katie Beckett and the life she'd had before tragedy had darkened her door.

Later that night, he'd retreated to the refuge of the Old Haunt after his mother had revealed that she'd promised Oona Marconi that he'd read and critique her book. He'd been thinking about other people's dreams and how he'd been able to facilitate helping some of them achieve them.

His own dream—a life with the woman he loved—had appeared to be indefinitely stalled. She'd indirectly asked for time when she'd first reappeared in his life months ago. He'd assumed she was talking about the possibility of _them_ on those swings when she'd told him she had to put her mother's case to rest so that she could have the kind of relationship that she wanted; that the wall had to come down first. He'd been willing to wait.

But that night at the Old Haunt, alone in his basement office, it had all seemed hopeless. When she'd mentioned her dreams that evening, it had been those of her childhood at the forefront of her mind. No hint about _them_ , and he'd been left to wonder if she even felt anything for him as he'd wandered to the elevator in a daze.

If she'd asked him about his dreams, he might not have confessed the truth, wary of frightening her. But they were all that he had, for now. What kept him going in the dark of night when he was alone in his giant, lonely bed. Waiting for her to finally figure it all out.

But, she hadn't asked him. And she hadn't hesitated to share her story of Katie Beckett's dream of a career in law, culminating at the Supreme Court. To him, it was obvious that she wasn't spending much time thinking about their partnership. She was clearly content to leave it all as it was.

Which left him out in the cold.

So, he'd gotten drunk. He'd holed up in his little office that held nearly as many secrets as _she_ did and he'd drunk away the uncertainty. He had a hazy memory of calling Ka…Beckett…at some point and having a disjointed conversation with her about the meaning of dreams and whether fulfilling them—especially the most precious of them—was a possibility. He couldn't remember what they'd concluded. He wasn't even sure she'd bothered to listen to the inebriated ramblings of a lovesick fool.

That's when he decided to indulge in his favorite fantasy: Kate Beckett coming to _him_. Wanting _him_. The dream had taken over, as he'd imagined Kate coming to the bar to finish their conversation. He'd imagined them together so many times, it was easy to slip the bounds of reality. That night had been especially life-like. He'd cracked a new bottle of a whiskey they were trialling for the bar. It was magnificent, and he made a mental note to save it for those nights when he required extra...inspiration.

It'd all been enough for him to almost...almost forget it was just a dream.

In this fantasy, he'd still been drinking when she'd descended the stairs to his office below the bar. He'd forced himself to wait half an hour until after the bar manager, Chris, had left. Trying to explain why the boss was moaning in his office was not something he wanted to do. Plus, it gave him time for a little more...lubrication.

She'd walked in—the door was partially ajar, and from his precarious perch on his chair she'd appeared both determined and scared at the same time. He'd surprised himself, as her emotional state in most of his fantasies was usually one of desperation-for him. Fear was not something he'd typically associate in an encounter like this. Her PTSD after the shooting had made her cower in fear during the sniper case, which was understandable. She'd fought back from it though, as they'd all known she would. But scared of him? It was unusual...but not completely out of bounds.

He'd dropped the glass back onto the desk, never finishing the familiar route to his mouth. The noise had made her jump and he'd almost slurred out an apology, but when she'd looked into his eyes the words just died in his mouth. She'd shrugged out of her coat, which had dropped to the ground without notice as she'd crossed the short expanse between the door and his desk.

He remembered marveling over how real it all felt as she'd wordlessly swiveled his chair so she could straddle his legs. She'd been wearing jeans and a t-shirt—another oddity, because in most of his fantasies she was wearing a sexy dress (or nothing but lingerie) when they got to this stage, but honestly he found her irresistible no matter what she was wearing.

He'd looked up at her, as her position mounted above him placed her head above his; her hair had cascaded down around his face, enveloping them in a bubble outside of time that was perhaps the most intimate moment he'd ever experienced in his life, fantasy or not.

She'd just looked at him, unspeaking. As with all his fantasies of her, he'd been able to read the desire in her eyes, but this version of Kate had a sweet vulnerability that he found breathtaking. He'd reached up with one hand to caress her cheek, moving her hair behind her ear on that side and she'd closed her eyes and turned into the caress. He'd then taken his other hand behind her head and slowly guided her down to his waiting lips.

Their kiss had been gentle, at first, as he'd marveled once more in how real it had all seemed. She'd felt warm; solid across his legs. The smell had even been right, with the faint whiff of cherries wafting past his nose. Deepening the kiss, he'd tasted deeply, finding a hint of vanilla.

She'd moaned at that moment, and suddenly everything had exploded like a powder keg. With their mouths still fused, they'd both begun grinding against the other, finding as many points of contact as possible. His hands had stolen under her shirt, and to his delight (well, it _was_ his fantasy, after all) there'd been no bra in the way.

Her nipples were already hard, and the sounds she'd made when he pinched and rolled them between his fingers were indescribable. He'd taken the opportunity to move his lips to her neck, then sucked one mound into his warm mouth, t shirt and all. She'd gasped, then had moaned even louder.

"Cassttle."

It was all either of them had said, for her hands had somehow moved down to his zipper and had been working to free his straining erection. He'd sat straight up—the break in their contact had made her groan in protest—but he'd just lifted her up enough to pull her jeans down her legs. She'd gotten the message and had stepped out of them. To his amazement, she'd been going commando under them—another fantasy of his played out. She'd then sunk back down on him, mouth to mouth once more.

The slick heat of her core so near his was a siren he couldn't resist. Grasping her tight buttocks, he'd lifted her again, but this time had positioned her at his tip. She'd opened her eyes and looked into his as she slid down his shaft, and it was all he could do not to come on the first thrust. He'd never felt such a connection to anyone. She'd been so tight and hot, and her flushed skin and clenching muscles had shown that she was as turned on as he was.

He'd managed a few thrusts, the feel of her surrounding him driving him higher and higher with each stoke. He'd felt his balls tightening as pressure had built in his pelvis, and the oncoming orgasm almost frightened him in the intensity that was ready to burst free. Just as he'd reached his limit, he felt her clamp down around him and she'd screamed incoherently. One more thrust almost painful in its pleasure and he'd…

A loud report rifled through the air as a lance of pain shot through his hand. Looking down, he saw he'd clenched his hand so tightly while lost in the dream that he'd cracked the glass he'd held. He stared dumbly as a drop of blood slowly rolled down one finger, gathering mass at the junction of the joint until it had enough momentum to drip with a small plunk onto the desk. He didn't know if he should get up and attend to his finger first, or the raging erection that the memory of his fantasy had brought about.

He watched as the growing pool of red on his desk washed over his vision. It reflected the rage that built within as he considered what he'd learned about the true Beckett in the last few days. She was not the innocent angel of his fantasy life...not even close. More like a siren who tempted men in with her song, only to trap them forever. Well, no more. Not for him. His anger transformed him: an avenging angel, demanding divine retribution from the temptress who'd ensnared him. He could hear nothing beyond the blood whooshing through his ears, and the urge to destroy was suddenly so strong that he couldn't check it any longer. He hurled the glass at the wall with all his force, shattering the remainder just as his life had shattered around him.

It was inconceivable that he still let her have this power over him, especially after he'd learned the truth from behind the glass of the interrogation room. The very thought of her duplicity, her friendliness made his stomach roil. She'd not wanted anything more from him than his partnership, but she'd led him on this whole time.

He was such a fool.

The morning after he'd gotten drunk at the Old Haunt, those three weeks ago, he'd woken up with a horrific hangover and a deep determination to be more direct in his dealing with her. He was tired of just dreaming about her, and the incredible reality of his fantasy from that night had fueled his decision to make her see that they didn't have to wait. That they'd be better together, rather than bumbling alone in the dark.

He'd not seen her for a day, and when they had finally came face to face in the precinct, his traitorous mind had replayed the look she'd worn as he'd been thrusting into her imaginary body. His erection had been instantaneous, and it was all he could do to prevent his hands from latching onto her and never letting go.

He'd managed to excuse himself before anyone noticed his…problem… and had fled in embarrassment. A few days of self-imposed isolation, and more masturbation sessions than he'd indulged in since he was a teenager, and he'd felt as though he could be in the same room as her without making a fool of himself. It had been time to launch his plan to win her, for once and for all.

It was through pure providence that he'd stalled long enough for them to land another case. A case that had required all of their undivided attention as they raced to figure out who had set the bomb at Boylan Plaza, and if more bloodshed would erupt.

He'd never had a chance to pull her aside and tell her what she meant to him, even when he'd had a momentary opportunity when they were discussing the frailty of life. She'd said something about not wanting to put off things that she wanted anymore, and a bright flash of adrenaline had surged through his body as he took in her words, but then Espo had interrupted and the moment had been lost.

Thank God.

For just a few days later, his world had been destroyed. Blown up, not by a bomb, but by the flick of her tongue.

Staring at the splattered red on his desk, he saw it quiver as another drop splashed down. It looked as if it were twinkling at him, representative of the flame that he'd carried for her for so long. A flame of hope, love and desire.

She hadn't even known he was present when she'd confronted the suspect with an accusation about his memory. An accusation that the suspect had listened to in stony silence, but one that had eviscerated the man better known as Richard Castle. And his flame— _their flame,_ that he'd carried so she didn't have to—had been doused by some meaningless words she'd thrown around in an interrogation.

Meaningless to her.

They'd meant everything to him.

" _The hell you don't remember. Do you want to know trauma? I was shot in the chest and I remember every second of it."_

 _Every second of it_. Those four little words had extinguished in full all of his dreams. Six simple syllables that had sucked the very oxygen out of the air.

They were stronger than just water drenching him in cold reality. It felt as though she'd crafted them from acid before spewing them forth. They'd not been aimed at him; he'd been hidden behind the glass. But they'd burned past the wall into the observation room where he'd stood and burrowed through his chest, lodging in his heart where they continued to scorch and singe.

His flame of hope had been replaced by a seething swamp of despair.

 _Every second of it._

She remembered.

She knew.

His confession to her as she lay dying, pleading with her to stay with him.

She'd lied, all this time.

Every fucking second of it.

* * *

 **Thanks, as always, to Garrae for reading and pushing me to write, write, write.**

 **Appreciate any thoughts/comments/questions.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Man, you guys completely shocked me. I honestly believed there'd be little interest in yet another 47 Seconds fic, let alone one rated M with trigger warnings to boot. Truly appreciate the support. Thank you.**

* * *

He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?

He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.

I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,

And went with half my life about my ways.

-A. E. Housman

* * *

"Is there anything else you'd like to talk about today, Kate?"

The mellifluous voice of Dr. Burke breaking the silence was enough to startle her back to reality.

"Huh?" she managed. _'Great one, Kate,_ ' she admonished silently. ' _So smooth_.'

"You seem distracted today, and I thought perhaps there was an issue you might want to discuss," Dr. Burke continued, his eyes pinning her in place. She really shouldn't be surprised anymore how observant her therapist was—his ability to connect some of her most disparate thoughts into a whole tapestry, all about Kate Beckett, was quite remarkable.

The past months had proven his competency beyond a shadow of a doubt. Many issues relating to her shooting and subsequent PTSD, her difficulty with her mother's murder, and the struggle with her father's alcoholism had been dealt with.

Unfortunately, that left the deeper issues: the heart of the matter, as it were, though even she was getting tired of the never-ending analogies involving her injured chest.

She wasn't sure she was ready to share the most recent events that served to illustrate just how fucked up her life really was. It was too raw; too painful to pull into the light for Burke to see quite yet. She preferred to marinate in the morass of her misery privately, at least for a bit longer.

"Talking about it often helps—it gives it a different perspective when you bring it all out in the open, you know."

"Of course you'd say that—it's your job," she bit back. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she closed her eyes tightly and regretted the harsh sound of her words. It wasn't fair to him; not fair at all.

He'd helped her, this man. Had listened to her broken narrative as she'd tried to make sense of her life after the shooting. Helped her to piece herself back, bit by bit.

The woman they'd cobbled together wasn't the Kate Beckett of old. This new version was hesitant—all too aware the price she might pay in her drive for justice might well be her life. Or worse—the life of someone she loved.

Beckett 2.0 was emotionally labile. The old Beckett had been locked down to the point of seeming an automaton at times. The shooting had smashed her ability to separate her feelings from her thought process. Suddenly she longed to be loved; wanted to be wanted. Gone was the woman who needed no one and expected nothing.

"I can see that whatever it is you're dealing with is bothering you a great deal. I don't think I've ever seen you so anxious, Kate."

Dismayed at how easily he'd read her body language—she was a homicide detective, for crying out loud—she deflected. "Anxious? I suppose I'm just worried about my shooting. I've been back to work now for some time, and I still have trouble dealing with the sound of a gun being fired, sometimes."

It was very true, just not what she'd been thinking about when he'd spoken. It was a point of pride with her that she'd never lied to her therapist: she'd wanted an honest relationship with him so she could truly heal. That commitment to the truth didn't mean she occasionally shied away from sharing everything. Especially how she felt about her partner. She'd not been ready—but was she now? Or would be soon?

"We've talked a lot about those issues in the last few months. I wondered if it might be something else, as your anxiety level seems much higher than I'd expect the shooting to elicit at this point."

"Why do you say that?"

"You're pacing. That's unusual for you."

She was what now? Looking down, she discovered that she was no longer in the chair where she normally settled to bare her soul for an hour twice a week. Heat blossomed in her cheeks as she stalked back to her usual perch, fists clenched as one part of her mind railed against the rest for revealing, even subconsciously, how undone this…situation…had made her.

Silence reigned for the next uncomfortable moments. Another sign of how this was affecting her. She'd always appreciated silence—reveled in it, utilized it, owned it—for both her job and her personal life. Most people were uncomfortable with quiet moments and filled the gaps with babble, often revealing things they'd meant to keep to themselves. Kate Beckett was not one of those people.

Until now. Now it was being used against her. She knew it, recognized it, but was unable to suppress the rapid beat of her heart or the quivering of the remainder of her internal organs as the absence of sound grew into a physical entity that engulfed and drowned her.

She broke, rocking in her seat, face buried in her hands. It was too much to bear, this burden she carried. Burke was not the man she needed to share it with, but perhaps he was right: saying it out loud would at least give her a place to start.

"I'm scared," she whispered, still trying to hide, probably appearing as ostrich-like as possible. Her eyes remained hidden by her hands, which did little to obscure the rest of her body to those who knew where to look. And, oh, could Burke find her, no matter how hard she tried to conceal her secrets. He was a master at exposing most of her wounds.

Yet, this one was buried far deeper than the anger, hurt and guilt she carried around concerning her mother's murder and her father's abrupt descent into alcoholism. This one was locked up in a tower surrounded by a moat with an approach guarded by land mines and vicious, teeth-baring dogs. She really couldn't blame him for missing the mark, though he'd come close.

"It's ok to be scared, Kate. I'm not trying to push you; if you're not ready to talk about it, then you're not ready. I just want you to know that when you are, I'm here to serve as your sounding board. Sometimes you just need to say something out loud for it to begin to make sense."

She contemplated leaving it there, letting him misunderstand her meaning. That would be the coward's way out, and, boy, if she didn't have that part nailed down. Casting need look no further for the epitome of the Cowardly Lion in any modern resurrections of the Wizard of Oz.

Still, it was comforting to know someone out in the bright, cold world wanted to know what she was thinking; wanted to help. She just had to ignore the derisive voice in her head that counted out how much she was paying the man to listen to her.

Talking to him had made her realize how much she blamed herself for the issues brought about by the events begun so long ago, on that cold January day. Now came the hard part: the path she needed him to help her tread to repair the complete and utter shambles of her personal life.

She'd made her choice months ago, when she'd sought his help (though she didn't really have much choice. She had to fix this. Had to.). She lifted her head and spoke loud enough for him to hear over the pounding drumbeat of her heart.

"I'm scared. Terrified." It was hard to talk; her throat suddenly felt as though the arid sands of the Sahara were lodged within. Reaching for the water bottle sitting on the floor below her chair, she concentrated on suppressing her shaking hands sufficiently for a few sips.

He simply sat, waiting for her to continue. Recapping the bottle, she dropped it to her lap. Stalling for time as she considered where to start; how much to say.

"I've spent my entire adult life focused on one event. One moment has defined me," trailing off, she turned to stare out the lone window in the room. It was large; offered a good view of the deep blue sky outside. A few fluffy, white clouds scudded by, driven by an unseen, forceful wind. Another analogy drifted into her mind as she watched them and compared them to how she's lived since her mother's death: drifting past the world. Seen, but not touched. Ethereal.

"Your mother's murder," Burke prompted, cracking apart her reverie once more.

She looked at him; met his eyes for the first time since this whole discussion began. They were warm, interested. And concerned, but without the pity that she saw in so many other eyes when her mother's death intruded on the conversation. She couldn't stand the pity.

"Yes, my mother's murder," she nodded, sharply. "I chose my career based on that one act. Not only to put away the bad guys, but also to search for my own answers to my questions on her case."

Burke remained still; quiet. This was not new information for him: they'd hashed out her background within the first few sessions of their initial meetings. It was the framework for most of her dysfunction, after all.

Most. But not everything. She couldn't blame the recent fuck ups on anything other than her own contemptible actions.

"Nothing else mattered to me. I worked hard, slept little and ate enough to survive. Everything revolved around the precinct and if you were to ask how I defined myself, I would have said I was a cop. Nothing more, nothing less."

Burke shifted slightly in his chair. It was subtle, but she'd been watching for it. Not so imperturbable, her therapist. "Many people do come to identify with their work. Doctors, for example. But you said that is how you would have defined yourself, Kate. Has something changed?"

She ignored his question to put into words the thoughts that had been haunting her from the moment she'd regained consciousness after the sniper's bullet had ripped her chest open.

"But don't doctors have other definitions for themselves? Mother? Or Father? Wife? Husband? I have none of those titles. None. I've not looked for them…actively avoided them, I guess. They didn't fit into my single-minded quest. That's not to say I don't have friends—'cause I do, but they're all cops. Or their work is associated with cops. And while they'd say I'm their friend, I know what they are. Superficial, at best. I don't let them in very far. They've no idea how broken I am inside ."

Dropping her chin to her chest, she thought of the ways she'd kept people at arm's length. Lanie had made it the furthest into the bleak spaces of her mind, but that was mainly due to Lanie's bull headedness, rather than Kate wanting her there. Even then, Lanie still didn't understand her. She guessed well, sometimes, but much of her advice was far off the target.

"Once, I would have said I was a daughter. But that title splintered apart with my mother's stabbing." Hot tears began trailing down her cheeks, and she wiped at them angrily. Burke leaned over and offered her a box of tissues, which she accepted gratefully.

"You're still a daughter, Kate. Her death doesn't take that away from you."

"But the essence of being the daughter to a mother no longer exists. She can't listen to me talk. Can't hug me. Or tell me she loves me, no matter what dumb decisions I make. I can't call her, or text her, or write to her. I carry a piece of her in my heart, but I don't feel her with me, most of the time. It's just like an empty space that's always there where she should be."

"You feel her physical absence leaves you unable to feel fulfilled in the role she would have played?"

Kate nodded, stifling a sob.

"What about your father? He's still in your life. You've told me previously that your relationship has improved now that he's been sober for so long."

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth as she thought about her father. "It's true, that our relationship is better. But it's never been the same, not since she died and he fell apart. I tried to take care of him, when he was drinking so heavily. It's like I became the parent, and he the child. Not entirely, but his drinking definitely damaged our bond, to a great degree. Even now that he's recovered, I still find myself waiting, watching for the first sign that he's slipped. I don't feel like I can share my deepest fears or worries with him. So, no, I don't feel like I have a father-daughter relationship with him. Not now."

"So, you said you've long defined yourself as a cop. It was enough for you, or so it seems, for many years. What changed?"

She picked at her jeans, at the nearly microscopic lint that suddenly needed her attention. Yet, she'd started this conversation. She was tired of hiding, so why was it so hard to say out loud?

"I got shot."

"Which made you realize how much in your life was missing? The near death experience?"

"No. Yes. Well, in a way." She struck her fist on the arm of her chair abruptly. "God, this is hard."

"Take your time, Kate. We don't have to get through it all today."

She took a deep breath and held it, trying to keep her body from folding in on itself until she was just a speck of dust. Releasing a long sigh, she nodded. "Getting shot, nearly dying was traumatic, obviously, but that wasn't the true catalyst for all of this. I've mentioned Rick, um, Richard Castle before?"

Burke bent his head, assenting.

"When I first met him, he drove me crazy. He challenged everything, inserted himself into places…and spaces that I didn't want him in. But, after a while, I began to realize that he made everything lighter, more fun. Then, after more time, I came to see that I wanted him there, next to me. We were partners. He became an essential part of the team."

"That's quite impressive for someone not trained as you've been."

"He's got a great mind," she smiled, thinking of all the crazy things that came out of his mouth at times. "He thinks outside of the box, and with the cases that we get, that's absolutely necessary. He's not always right, but he makes me approach things differently than I might otherwise, and sometimes that's all I need."

"He's quite valuable, then?"

"Yes. He is; more than we probably tell him."

Another pause followed, until she coaxed her mouth into cooperation. Time to launch into the crux of the matter.

"He's been interested in me since the beginning." She spoke in a near whisper, almost too low for him to even hear her. She risked glancing up at the therapist through her lashes, but found nothing to fear from his chair. He was seated, calm and open as always. "But I held him off. Didn't want or need a relationship coming between what we had as work partners. Didn't want a serious relationship with anyone, and I knew with him that it would be deep from the beginning. We connect in too many ways for it to be meaningless, for either of us."

"Did he know how you felt?"

"No, I don't think so. I'm very good at suppressing my emotions—years of practice came in handy, once more. He knew I never gave him any reason to think that I was interested, and seemed satisfied with the way things were. At least I thought he was."

"And he stuck around? He must have really enjoyed working with you all."

"I think he did like the camaraderie and the feeling that he was helping, but he's also stubborn. And, I discovered that he felt more for me than I'd realized."

"What happened?"

"I was shot," she repeated, tears beginning to flow again. "Do you remember a few months ago when I told you I remembered everything from the shooting?"

"Yes."

"Well, what I didn't tell you was that he whispered something in my ear as he held me in his arms. I was slipping away, but the last thing I heard before everything went black was that he loved me. He loved me."

Another short silence ensued as Burke let her mop her tears up before proceeding.

"How do you feel about him?"

"I—I love him too. I want to build a life with him. But it's all so messed up. I've screwed it up, as usual."

"He loves you, you love him. That seems like a solid foundation to me. How have you messed it up?"

"By lying. I lied to him when I first woke up, told him I didn't remember anything from the shooting."

"Why would you do that?"

"I was scared. Scared of what he'd said, what it meant. Then, I ran off to my father's cabin and didn't see anyone for months. But in that time, I decided that I wanted a life with him. I had to get better first, I knew that. Which is why I came back; why I started working with you. Trying to sort out my mess of a life so that I could have an adult relationship for the first time in my life. A real relationship."

"Well, as your therapist, Kate, I think you've done an incredible job. You've worked hard over the last months. I see a lot of progress, and I've no doubt that you'll get to where you want to be with more time. You have to be patient."

She almost jumped up and started pacing again, but grabbed the arms of the chair instead. The held her in place, though her tight, white-knuckled grip threatened their integrity. "I know I've made progress, and I'm thankful for the help you've given me so far. I just wish…I'm such an idiot. I've fucked it all up again."

"What happened?"

Silence stretched between them as seconds became minutes. Still, she was afraid to confess her sins. He wouldn't absolve her. But, perhaps, he could help her see her way out of the quagmire.

Despondent, she felt her breathing speed up as she contemplated the last few weeks of agony that had characterized their current détente. "I'd told him when I came back from the shooting that I needed time. He'd been so angry with me, when I disappeared and didn't contact anyone. I don't blame him for that. But, I knew I wasn't ready. So, I asked for time and he was ok with it. Things were the same. But as time went on, I started getting impatient." She sighed, exhausted by her confession and the constant replaying of the last three weeks in her brain.

"I wanted more, and I thought he did too. We had this case, and as usual his help was invaluable. At the end of it, he was talking about dreams and whether they came true. I told him one of mine when I was a kid, something that's long past fulfilling now. I wanted to tell him more, about what I dreamt for the two of us together, but the words got stuck in my mouth and he left before I got them out."

"You were disappointed you couldn't share your dream of the two of you together? That you were ready to start with him as a couple?"

"No. Yes. Well, no, not really. It just didn't seem like the right moment. Looking back, I think he was the one who was disappointed. He called me later that night. He sounded drunk, and he was challenging me about the meaning of dreams. I got a little worried about him, so I threw on some clothes and went to the Old Haunt—that's the bar he owns."

Burke just nodded. She was in so far now that she couldn't stop, but the rest of the events from that night were difficult to talk about.

"He'd been drinking, though I wasn't sure at the time just how much. He looked so sad and lost sitting at his desk."

She swallowed, lost in the moment. "Something in me just snapped. I was so tired of being the one holding us back. So, I did it. I slept with him," she whispered, voice hoarse and unrecognizable. "I slept with him and then he didn't show up at the precinct the next day. The day after, he acted as if nothing had happened. Like we were just as we'd been before. And I thought…I thought, ok, he was drunk. Doesn't remember, though it killed me to think that. It was...such an intimate moment, our connection should've been stronger after. But, I just decided to forget it, like he must've. Thought, well, we'll just...start over. Build into this. Build it together."

She wasn't aware she was crying again until the warm drops were hitting her arms, folded in her lap. So many things happened these days that she was oblivious to, especially when she got lost thinking about the last few days.

"But then he was acting a little strange over the next week and a half, so I told myself I just had to be patient. You know, give _him_ some space. Then, just when I thought he was in a place where we could talk, this Boylan Plaza case erupted."

She drew her legs up in the chair, curling into as tight a ball as possible. She rocked forward, nauseous but with a throat so tight she wasn't sure she could vomit even if she lost control. A few seconds of silence ticked by before she could continue.

"A-a-after the bombing, any personal thoughts had to be shoved aside. I... I figured once I solved it, then we'd talk. Get through the case as quick as possible and go from there. But...but, then a few days ago—I don't know, something—something happened. Something _changed,_ with him."

She took a deep, hiccuping breath, as tears fell unchecked down her face and dripped onto her shirt, a darkening stain visible on her shirt and pants like blood leaking from an unseen wound.

"He's barely talked to me since then. He...he acts really angry and he's so...brusque. He's _never_ been like this before. Something happened and I have no idea what it was or what I did or how to fix it. I don't know what to do."

She looked up at Dr. Burke, overbright eyes staring unblinking at him as he sat watching her.

"Tell me what to do."

* * *

 **Appreciate all your thought/comments/questions**


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter and several others contains a lot of dialogue straight from the episodes that fit the timeline for this story: 47 Seconds, The Limey, and Headhunters. I would like to thank Dustjackets: A Castle Wiki for their wonderful site, which I used for all of the necessary dialogue.**

* * *

"Good evening, ladies and gentleman. We're about to start boarding Delta flight 2508 with service to New York's JFK…."

He looked up with dull eyes and idly observed the fierce jockeying for position at the gate as the Delta agent pleaded with the masses to check their boarding pass for the zone number that would be announced, in order. Even though Delta still assigned seats, the process of loading a plane always saw otherwise rational humans turn into raging zombies trying to outmaneuver the system for the privilege of getting on the plane before everyone else.

Not that it mattered to him. He had a Stella Artois only half finished in his hand and a first class ticket in his pocket, which meant he'd have even more alcohol to drown his sorrows in once he deigned to board the red eye flight back to New York. He'd found a perfect seat to watch the chaos all unfold at the bar in the Chili's Too, which was oh-so-conveniently located to gate D 38 at McCarren International Airport.

Unfortunately, at the moment he wasn't nearly drunk enough. Unwanted images and thoughts of _her_ were breaking through the bleary barrier of booze that had brined his brain for the better part of the weekend. He'd purposefully sobered up slightly this evening—missing his flight wouldn't be the end of the world, but he wanted to get home to his baby girl. Her graduation was rushing closer and closer—time sluicing through his fingers like water, and he was powerless to stop it. She was going to graduate, start her life as a college student and she'd leave him all alone.

Alone, with nothing but ghosts to keep him company in the loft. Ghosts of regrets and what-ifs. He tipped the bottle back, the pale lager sliding down his throat and soothing the jagged edges that seemed ready to clench together into a tight choke whenever he slipped up and thought about _her_ lie. Perhaps with enough ethanol dulling his brain he'd be able to sleep.

Or at least find blissful oblivion for a few more hours.

What stuck with him—bothered him the most—was how near he'd come to making a complete fool of himself. He'd been so ready to profess his love to her.

Again.

So very fucking close.

The bombing the previous week had gutted him in several ways—had blasted several truths into his consciousness that he'd not been able to ignore. The loss of life, for one. The concept of being in the wrong place at the exact wrong time, for another. His daughter's exposure to the slaughter resulting from such a cavalier and self-centered act had hammered home that she'd soon be out in the cold, cruel world, unprotected. Vulnerable to carrion such as Leann West and her ilk.

But beyond the constant worry over his daughter's impending departure from the sanctuary of the loft had come the realization that life was too precious to waste. Not that this hadn't been driven home in cases prior to the bombing. It had just been such a profoundly stark message this time, impossible to discount. Perhaps it was the cold juxtaposition of seeing his daughter so affected by the senseless destruction and his examination of his own personal progress with the woman he loved.

Progress that could be portrayed with a precise number: zero.

He'd sunk to indulging in pure fantasy—however realistic it seemed—rather than trying to push their relationship forward. Whatever the reason, he'd been forced to acknowledge that he wasn't happy with the status quo anymore.

He'd thought _she_ might not be either. She'd revealed as much (or at least that's what he'd interpreted) when she'd confessed, _"It makes you think about all those things in your own life that you don't want to put off anymore."_ It had felt like she'd wanted to say more, but Espo's interruption to gather everyone for Gates' announcement regarding the FBI's request to figure out who the backpack belonged to had left them at loose ends yet again.

Grimacing, he remembered his mother's words later that night when she'd brought him a brimming cup of coffee while he'd been watching news footage of the bombing. She'd surprised him when she'd told him that avoiding seeing him at the precinct had kept her from thinking of him as a cop—and thus preserved her delusion that he wasn't in any more danger than if he'd been busy writing in the loft.

He'd never spent much time ruminating on how his adult activities might affect his mother, but now that Alexis was on the cusp of soaring out on her own he found he appreciated his mother's advice all the more.

Yet, it hadn't been Alexis he'd been alluding to when he'd revealed the biggest message the bombing had laid at his feet.

" _Well if the bombing proves anything it's that bad things can happen no matter what you do_." He'd paused, and then continued in a soft voice, " _No one's tomorrow is guaranteed_."

His mother had looked at him steadily, compassion in her eyes. She'd taken a deep breath, and then asked him a question he didn't have an answer for.

" _So … how do you plan to act on this realization_?"

His mouth had gone dry. She was pushing him, and he was terrified of launching into a course of action that he'd later regret. " _What do you mean?_ "

" _Oh, you know what I mean. Richard, how much longer are you going to drag your heels before you tell Beckett how you feel – and I mean while she is awake, not lying on the ground with a bullet in her chest_."

His posture had stiffened. It seemed all too easy for her to propose an approach that had abject catastrophe written all over it. She didn't know Kate: how stubborn and recalcitrant she could be. Not like _he_ knew her. He had to take it slow—introduce the concept of his love for her subtly, until she was in the middle of it without knowing how it had all begun.

Confrontation—or confession—either would more than likely send Kate Beckett running for the hills.

That's what he'd thought at the moment. Of course, he'd still harbored hope in his heart at the time.

More fool he.

He'd protested his mother's assumption that he needed to change the status quo and _do_ something. " _You don't understand. It's—."_

" _It's complicated, so you say. Only, it's not_." He'd shot her a look that must have conveyed some of the agony the stupid stalemate had brought him, as she'd continued, " _It's not. Nobody's tomorrows are guaranteed, right? Wouldn't it be better to tell her, even if the timing is wrong, than never to tell her at all_?"

She'd waited; quiet, while he'd weighed her words. There'd been a burning in his gut as the acid tried to leach its way through the wall of his stomach and spill out onto the ground. What if she was right? What if she was wrong? He'd been walking on eggshells since that day months ago on the swing when Kate had tossed a crumb of hope at his feet. He'd been paralyzed, afraid that if he tried to move forward that she'd seize up and destroy the only token he'd been given.

But, what if…what if one of them was hurt or injured, or, God forbid, killed next week? What if, in his determination to remain resolute and not push her for a decision, something tragic happened and they ended up losing the chance they'd been given?

" _And what if she isn't ready_?" He'd been so sure that she'd felt something for him. That they'd be together at some point, sooner or later.

" _Then she never will be. Then you move on_."

His mother's words had hurt, at the time. But, he'd recognized on some level that she was right, that this detente and delay was fooling no one and only serving to make them both miserable.

He'd had no idea at the time that it was the latter part of her message that would come to fruition.

Taking another swallow of the beer, he mulled over his weekend. He'd fled to Las Vegas after they'd solved the case (and after he'd finally heard the truth) to get away from it all—get away from _her_ and her lies. He'd promptly tried to pickle himself in as much alcohol as he could and had spent hours desperately pretending that he was having a great time partying in Sin City.

Poker had been a roaring success, probably because no one could come close to reading his expressions. He'd appeared as miserable when he held a fistful of random cards as when he had four of a kind. He'd cleaned out his competitors, but even the satisfaction of taking on and beating the card sharks he'd found at the Bellagio had failed to make any dent in his dark disposition.

Looking up at the gate, he saw that there were only twenty or thirty people left waiting to board. He threw some cash on the bar and creaked upright from the hunched over position he'd assumed when he'd sat down an hour ago.

He shuffled to the gate, each step closer to New York weighing him down as if one of his research subjects in the mob had chained concrete blocks to his legs. His disheveled appearance prompted several glares from people waiting in line to load the final zone as he stumbled past and walked through the deserted area roped off for premiere class boarding. The harried ramp agent scanned his boarding pass and waved him through. He dragged his exhausted body down the jet way, mind buffeted by the constant, looping replay of _her_ words as she'd confronted Bobby Lopez.

" _Bobby. Don't lie to me_."

" _It was not the trauma. You do not get to use that excuse_."

" _The hell you don't remember. Do you want to know trauma? I was shot in the chest and I remember every second of it."_

Each one had been serrated, stabbing him randomly as he'd stood there listening.

But, he'd finished the job. He'd held his head high and had persevered. He didn't think anyone had even noticed there was anything wrong—well, no one except his mother. She'd read him like a book when he'd asked her to go with him to Boylan Plaza. To pay homage to both the dead and to the end of his hopes and dreams for a future with _her_.

" _Oh Richard, really? A bomb memorial? C'mon, honey. Isn't this kind of morbid_?"

He'd hung his head and stuttered out a response. " _Well it's how I'm feeling_."

" _She isn't dead_."

No, no she wasn't. But a part of him had died in that observation room when he'd realized what she was saying. " _She might as well be_."

His mother had stared at him, mouth gaped open. He'd meant the words as a harsh response to the situation, not literally. That was the thing about love—he'd never wished her true harm. He just wished he could scrub the heartache away. The anguish of his unrequited love had suffused his soul. It was agonizing.

" _I really thought we could have a future together. You know, I was—I was willing to wait. Turns out it's all just a big joke_." They'd come to the fence where offerings of flowers and stuffed animals served as memorial to those killed and hurt in the bomb. He'd faced his mother, clutching his stomach and feeling dizzy as his overburdened heart seemed to give up as the rest of his body had. " _She knew. This whole time, she remembered. And she didn't say anything…_ " he'd paused, tried to elucidate a reason for her actions that might justify what she'd done to him, "… _because she was embarrassed because she doesn't feel the same way. I'm such a fool_."

His mother had looked away. He'd seen the tears in her eyes. She'd grasped his hand and had given it a tight squeeze. " _Well c'mon. Let's go home. Break out some of the good stuff, okay_?"

" _Well I'd love to. I've got to be getting back_."

His mother had been so bewildered that she actually cried out in an octave higher than her usual range. " _Back? Why on Earth would you go back, knowing how she feels, knowing that she lied to you_ —."

" _No, no, no. This isn't about her. This is – this is about them_ ," he'd pointed at the fence in front of them. " _You know? It's about doing something real. Something that matters. I'm not willing to let that go_."

His mother's sad smile had demonstrated her understanding. It was her departing words that had stuck with him for the rest of the case, and then had followed him to Vegas. " _Richard, love is not a switch. You can't just turn it off. You can't work side by side with her and not feel anything_."

He'd drawn himself upright and had clenched his teeth together before spitting out, " _Watch me_."

It'd been brave talk at the time; he'd even believed it for the first day or two. He'd hardened his heart to her, had relentlessly reminded himself of her perfidy every time he'd noticed his resolve retreating even slightly.

At the end of the case, he'd found some satisfaction in his role at the precinct. A role that he'd tried to consider independent of _her._ He'd helped solve a complex case—had been a major part of the team which had discovered that Leann West was responsible: that her quest for ratings had taken a dark and deadly turn.

But, his mother had been right. While he'd reveled in his ability to walk away from her after the arrest, being with her on a daily basis was excruciating. He'd needed distance, and while a weekend in Vegas spent slowly replacing his blood with alcohol hadn't necessarily led to an epiphany, he'd decided that he couldn't continue as it had been.

"Welcome aboard, sir." He looked up and saw the open, friendly face of one of the flight attendants greeting him. He grunted at the man and brushed past him into the cabin. He was in seat 1B—he always chose an aisle seat if he could, and preferred the first row for the even more generous leg room. His seat mate at the window was a man in his 30's, already with headphones covering his ears and his nose buried in a book. Not one of his—it appeared to be a scifi/fantasy novel—but he was relieved he'd not have to make idle chitchat. He was in no mood to do so.

He collapsed into his chair and closed his eyes. He had little expectation of sleeping, despite the hour and his level of fatigue. No, he'd be spending the next four and a half hours trying to figure out what to do once he got back to the city.

And drinking. As much as they'd let him.

"Excuse me sir, would you like something to drink before we take off?" The welcoming voice came from in front of him, female this time.

He answered brusquely, without ever opening his eyes, "Bloody Mary, extra vodka."

Vodka would loosen up the wheels and cogs of his brain, help him to come to a difficult decision. One that he could see was necessary, but implementing it was going to hurt. A lot.

"Here you go, sir." The friendly voice had returned, with a glancing touch to his hands as she placed the drink on the console between the two seats. Opening his eyes, he saw a beautiful blonde woman leaning over him. She was smiling at him, polite but amiable, and he couldn't help but to answer it with a grin of his own.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" She straightened up, leaving behind only a trace of her scent (coconut, and something else—orange?) and slight warmth in his fingers where she'd touched him.

He regarded her lazily, observing that she was of average height and a petite build. She didn't seem fazed by his inspection—if anything her eyes were sparkling even brighter.

"Why, yes. Yes, ma'am, there sure is something you do for me," he countered, picking up the Bloody Mary from the console. "I've changed my mind. I don't think I'm going to need this drink, after all."

She reached for the drink, and their hands met once more.

"And you can give me your name. Mine's Rick."

Her smile grew deeper and more personal as he grasped her hand longer than he needed to, making it clear he'd meant to touch her. He winked at her as she sized him up and gave a slight nod.

"Jacinda. My name's Jacinda."

* * *

 **Ah, yes. Jacinda. I cannot** _ **wait**_ **to hear what you think of this chapter.**

 **All opinions welcome!**


	4. Chapter 4

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain

Under my head till morning; but the rain

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

Upon the glass and listen for reply,

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

For unremembered lads that not again

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,

I only know that summer sang in me

A little while, that in me sings no more.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

The fruity aroma from the bottle gave Kate a momentary pause as she poured the red wine into two glasses. Light refracting through the glasses made her think of blood, a substance she and her companion saw far too much of in the course of a day. But it wasn't a stranger's blood that she was imagining. It was her own, coupled with the echo of his words in her ears as things faded to black.

"You gonna hold that wine captive, or do I get some too?" Lanie's sassy voice interrupted, teasing tone not hiding the concern that her friend had shown when she'd arranged this girls' night session earlier in the afternoon.

Kate smiled, though it was more a grimace than a reflection of any happiness. She'd agreed to talk to Lanie for a few reasons. First—and the most important—was that her friend usually had good advice, and if anyone could use some good advice at the moment, it was Kate Beckett.

Secondly, Lanie had an uncanny ability get down to what mattered the most and to ignore what was unimportant, especially when it came to Richard Castle. She'd been encouraging Kate to pursue him from nearly their first encounter. Kate didn't trust her own instincts anymore, especially with his behavior the last few days.

Finally, Dr. Burke had been quite direct that she needed to be more open and communicative with her friends. Lanie was the closest thing she had to a best friend, and so Kate had decided to start with her. The debut of the better, improved version of Kate Beckett was at hand.

Too bad the old Kate Beckett was screaming in the background that this was a terrible idea and that she needed to make a run for it.

Taking a deep breath and trying to calm her racing heart, she continued pouring the wine while she spoke.

"I'm telling you. Something happened. Something changed. It's been weird between us lately."

Lanie knew exactly who she was referring to: they'd been discussing the _mystery_ of the mystery writer before she'd offered to get them both a glass of wine.

"Lately?" Lanie paused, and for a second Kate thought she was going to stop there. Her heart shrank: if Lanie hadn't noticed anything, then it was going to be even more difficult than she'd imagined explaining it in any way that made any sense. She was about to open her mouth to reply when Lanie pre-empted her. "Kate, it's been weird for 4 years."

She should have known Lanie wouldn't dance around the subject. Besides, she needed her advice.

"No, this is different. _He's_ different. It's like he's pulling away." She handed her friend her wine and took a seat next to her friend, which was a good thing as Lanie's next comment punched her in the gut.

"Well, can you blame him? He's probably tired of waiting." Lord, Lanie wasn't holding back tonight. She was floored by the comment—not the statement itself, so much, but rather how astute Lanie could be.

She'd never even hinted to her friend that she thought of Rick Castle as anything more than a partner. Not because she hadn't trusted Lanie, but because she hadn't been willing to admit it even to herself. At least until recently.

Now, it might all be too late.

"Waiting? Waiting for what?" The innocent look she'd plastered onto her face might have passed right by the boys, but Lanie Parrish required an entirely different level of acting. One which she simply wasn't capable of achieving after the last few weeks of painful reflection.

"What do you think? The guy is crazy about you. And despite your little act, you're crazy about him."

Kate gave her a death glare for that statement, ignoring the fact that her friend was spot on.

"Oh, what? Was that supposed to be some big secret?"

Well, yeah. Yeah it was.

"Yes." Now it was Lanie's turn to glare. "No." She took a sip of her wine to regain her equilibrium. Leaning in towards the medical examiner, she lowered her voice, "Do you think he knows?"

Lanie smiled. "Do you remember how he used to be? Girl on either arm? You really don't see that guy too much anymore. Why do you think that is?"

Kate bit her lip, but remained silent.

"He's waiting for you."

A small smile slipped onto Kate's lips, though she remained quiet. Lanie gave her a pointed look—her commanding confidence in her conclusion was impossible to ignore. "Yeah, but Lanie…"

"I know, I know. You're dealing with stuff. But you can't ask him to wait forever."

Kate's heart lurched into a steady gallop and her throat constricted as if a vice had been clamped around it. She wasn't sure how much she would—or even could—confess to her friend, but the urge to blurt out that she'd already _jumped_ past waiting was difficult to suppress.

"Unless, of course, you're okay with him pulling away."

No. God, no, that wasn't what she wanted. But for some reason, it was what he seemed to be doing. Maybe it was befitting their history together—awkward as it was. A kind of twisted karmic result of her lie when he'd visited her in the hospital after her shooting. Whatever the reason, it was very decidedly _not_ what she wanted.

Yet…perhaps…it was what she deserved.

"What if it doesn't work? What if it ends up like you and Javi?" She didn't think she could be as amicable as Lanie and Javi appeared to be—two people who'd tried for more and had fallen short of the mark. It was a scenario that gave rise to a boiling pit of acid in her stomach when she thought about it. Life without Castle in it would be far worse to contemplate than life with him, even if they never progressed past the point of partners. She'd come to crave his presence far too much to entertain the consequences of their relationship flaming out.

"Well at least we gave it a shot. And so it didn't work out. So what? Now we can move on, give or take the occasional booty call."

The sassy words triggered a smirk from her, though as she weighed their meaning it was clear that what Lanie and Espo had engaged in was far less than what she felt for Castle—and what she felt from him. She would never be content with occasional booty calls. It was all or nothing. And the concept of nothing made her hands tremble and her skin clammy.

"I just – I don't want to lose what we have, you know?"

Though she ached for more. So much more.

"Girl, please. What exactly do you have, really?"

"A friendship." A friendship that had derailed somehow. Oh, and one night where she'd had fantastic, incredible sex with him.

Which he'd forgotten.

"No. What you and I have is a friendship. What you and Castle have is a holding pattern. How long can you circle before the fuel runs out?"

Lanie was right. The engines were sputtering. She just wished that she could see ahead; know that everything would be fine in the end. She was so inept at handling most of her personal life; it appeared to be inevitable that she'd fuck this up as well.

She and Dr. Burke had discussed this. It was time to move forward. Time to risk a little for the reward of having him in her life. Having Lanie as a cheerleader—and someone to help her think through her actions—would be invaluable. A few deep breaths and a good throat clearing gave her hope that she could talk in a normal voice.

Talking without tears was too much to wish for.

Luckily for both of them, their phones didn't ring with the latest dead body until _after_ she'd confided that she'd heard what Rick had whispered to her that day, that she'd lied about it for months, and that she'd succumbed to temptation the night he'd called her from the Old Haunt.

The halting description of how Castle had responded—or, in this case, hadn't responded—earned her a hug from her best friend as their phones rang simultaneously.

As she answered her phone, she caught a determined look on Lanie's face. This discussion wasn't over, by any means.

* * *

Lanie had taken a cab to her apartment, not wanting to bother finding a parking space in the busy neighborhood. Therefore, with a new body drop, Kate gave her friend a ride to the crime scene. The time alone gave them the opportunity to rehash the ruination that represented the last three weeks of Kate's life.

Kate appreciated the need to keep at least some of her attention on the road: it made her confession a little less intimate than if she'd had to meet Lanie's eyes as they reiterated all the details.

"Lemme see if I understand all this. After you were shot, and we're all scrambling to get to you, all you remember is that Writer Boy held you in his arms and told you he loved you?"

Kate felt her ears turn warm and fidgeted in her seat. "Yeah, well, that's how I remember it, ok? It all faded to black after that."

"Mmmhmmm. Then, the next thing that happens after you wake up in the ICU is Castle comes to see you, flowers in hand and his heart on his sleeve, and you told the poor man that you didn't remember anything?"

"You make it sound so terrible—"

"Because it _was_ terrible, Kate. You left him high and dry; left us all to try and pick up the pieces of what had happened while you hid in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. We saw you _die_. Do you have any idea what that was like? I can't imagine what Castle went through, your blood on his hands and watching you fade away every time he closed his eyes."

Kate shook her head, mute for a moment as a tear tracked its way down her cheek. There was no way to defend what she'd done, but she wanted to try and explain it. "It was no picnic for me, you know. I nearly died, was still a target—for all I know I still am! I was just so hurt and confused and...and _broken_. I didn't want you to see me like that."

"We're your friends, Kate. We're supposed to be there for you. Every single one of us would've jumped up to help you, if you'd let us. You know that, right?"

Kate nodded, taking one hand off the wheel to squeeze her friend's hand quickly. "I know. I know you would've. And I've been working on accepting help, with Dr. Burke. I have!" she cried out in response to Lanie's skeptical stare. "It's just been me, alone, for so long that I—I struggle, relying on others," she whispered, glancing out of her peripheral vision to see if Lanie had caught it.

She had. "Girl, that is the understatement of the year. But, I'm glad you've been working on it. It sounds as if this Dr. Burke has been good for you."

Kate took in a deep breath and held it, before releasing it in a shaky laugh. "He is good for me. As pushy as a certain medical examiner that I happen to know, but I've made a lot of progress on getting better—really getting better—with his help."

"Well, sounds like the man is a genius, then."

Kate looked over at her friend, who was staring back at her with a big smile on her face and a challenge in her eyes. Within a nanosecond they both burst out laughing. Once they calmed down, Lanie continued.

"So, you decided up at the cabin that you wanted more, came back to the city and started seeing Dr. Burke. In the meantime, Castle is helping the boys as best he can after being kicked out of the precinct by Gates. You go to see him, he's mad you never called—a sentiment shared by many others, I might add—but you tell him that you just need more time, that you want a relationship too, but have got a few issues to put to rest first. Is that accurate?"

Kate gripped the wheel tighter and cleared her throat. "Um, I was…I may not've…er, well, I might not have been _exactly_ that blunt when I told him that I needed more time."

Lanie sighed. "Kate, it might be an actual Vatican-worthy miracle that this man has waited for you for this long. I swear, you send more mixed signals than a color blind traffic cop."

Kate felt tears welling up, and wiped her face. "I don't mean to, Lanie. I just didn't think that anyone, even Castle, would want to be around me when I was so broken. Everyone who's ever meant something to me in my life has left me. I can't stand the thought of not having him in my life."

"You have to give us a chance at some point, Kate. You'll never be close to him if you don't let him in."

"Oh, I let him in, alright." A bark of what sounded like a laugh tore from her throat. It wasn't funny, not at all, but she wanted to lighten up the suffocating atmosphere that this whole conversation was producing.

"Yeah, tell me about that. So, you just decided one night that you needed to jump his bones?"

"He called me. I could tell he'd been drinking, but he sounded so upset. I thought I'd just go check on him."

"I've called you, upset at times. You've never checked on me."

"There was something in his voice…I was concerned."

"Ok, and so did this little charity visit include changing into fancy underwear before you left your apartment?"

Kate blushed a bright red. Cursing her body's response, she hoped that Lanie wasn't paying attention to her.

Of course that was a pipe-dream.

"Kate? What is it? You did wear lingerie, didn't you? What color?"

Kate shook her head. "Didn't wear lingerie."

Damn if her face didn't turn redder. She'd look like a ripe tomato with just a few more questions. Though, perhaps Lanie would let it slide…

"A sexy dress? One that made him stand up at attention as soon as he saw you?"

"No! No dress. Just some old jeans and a t-shirt."

Her skin prickled as she felt Lanie continue to stare at her. "What?"

"Girl, you should see your face. You look like a lobster. And I'm thinking that old jeans and a t-shirt are not nearly embarrassing enough to make you…wait a minute. What were you wearing _under_ these jeans and t-shirt, hmm?"

Apparently, bright red tomato _can_ get redder.

"Kathrine Houghton Beckett, well, I never! You went commando? What were you thinking? Wait, don't answer that," her friend covered her mouth with a hand, delight pouring out of her very pores. If one could see delight. Which, right now, was possible to see, surrounding Lanie Parish.

"So, how was it?"

"How was what?"

"The sex, you idiot. Was it hot? Was his…pen…as mighty as I've always imagined?"

"Gosh, Lanie! You don't ask for much, do you?"

"Shut it and spill, Kate. You owe me."

"As if." Another glance at the passenger seat revealed that Lanie was turned, eyes boring into her. Kate briefly contemplated stomping on the brakes in a desperate attempt to get her attention to something else, but then pictured Lanie being loaded into an ambulance still calling out questions about sex with Richard Castle.

"Fine. All I'll say is that it was by far the best experience I've ever had. I've always enjoyed sex with other partners, but this…it felt like he set me on fire, whereas before I'd just been lukewarm. He consumed me, and I wanted nothing but to be burned up with him again and again."

A gasp was heard from the other side of the car. Their hands collided in front of the front console, each reaching to crank up the A/C. "You're making it hot in here, Kate. Sounds incredible."

The dreamy smile Kate was wearing faded, replaced by her biting her lower lip. "It was incredible, right up until I got a phone call at two in the morning about a mix-up with one of my suspects on a case from a few weeks ago. I had to leave—he was still sleeping, but I figured we'd talk about it in the morning. Then, he never showed up until the following day. And it was pretty obvious that he wanted nothing to do with me."

"Are you sure you're reading him right? You two seem to have a real knack for piss poor communication."

"He couldn't even spend more than a few minutes in the same room with me. Then, just when it seemed like we were getting back on the same page, the Boylan Plaza bombing happened. We were so busy at first, there was no time to talk. Dr. Burke thinks he might have been too drunk to remember what happened."

"Well, that'll kill him when you tell him."

"Except that by the end of the case he could barely talk to me. He just acts so…I don't know, I guess angry is the best description."

"And you can't think of anything that you did or said to make him mad?"

"No! I've been wracking my brain, but I can't figure out what changed."

Kate saw the flashing lights strobing ahead and pulled into an empty space in the hotel parking lot. Killing the engine, they both climbed out. Kate closed her eyes and took a deep breath in through her nose. The difficult discussion would have to be tabled for now in favor of the dead.

"Well, girl, like I said, maybe he just needs to hear it from you now." Ok, it'd be tabled soon. Once Lanie decided to drop it. Kate turned and started to walk towards the crime scene tape decorating the door to the room in the cheap hotel where their victim had been found.

"So, what? You think I should tell him how I feel?" Her mouth went dry at the thought, but it was what Dr. Burke had recommended as well.

"Yes! You hunt murderers for a living. You can do this."

She'd take a freaking serial killer over confronting this conversation, any day.

"Okay. Okay. I just, I – I have to find the right time." Over a dead body was probably not the ideal time, but then again it _was_ her and Castle.

Apparently Lanie agreed. "No time like the present."

The low growl of a sports car's engine caught their attention, as out of place at a crime scene as a debutant at a rodeo. Kate was sure her mouth had flopped open as fish-like as Lanie's had, as they watched Castle's gleaming red Ferrari zoom up to the hotel and stop with precision within feet of them. Castle was in the driver's seat, but the attractive blonde in the passenger seat was a stranger to her. A swirl of cold air suddenly eddied around Kate; shivering, she huddled into her coat.

"What the…?" Lanie breathed.

Kate turned to her, casting daggers at her. Lanie shuffled a step backwards. "On second thought, maybe you should wait a bit. What's that? Ryan's calling? I – gotta go."

She turned tail and ran, leaving Kate to bear witness to the scene alone. Nauseated, she couldn't look away, no matter how desperately she wanted to.

Rick had jumped out; the blonde slid into the driver's seat. He closed the door and leaned down nearly to her ear, though his words were crystal clear from where Kate stood.

"I'll call you in about an hour." The blonde nodded, and then zoomed away. Castle watched the taillights disappear, then turned and practically skipped up to Kate.

"Hey there." His voice was jovial. His appearance, however, told a different story. He'd not shaved for several days, judging by the stubble. His eyes were lined with fatigue, and his clothes—well, they looked and smelled as if he'd slept in them. For more than one night.

"I feel like I just walked into a bad episode of Miami Vice." Her voice was tight, tension unable to be suppressed. He ignored it. She felt another eddy of frigid air wash past.

"Okay, first, there are no bad episodes of Miami Vice. Second, who died?"

"You, from the looks of it. You look like you just got run over by a truck."

They turned as one, moving towards the crime scene. In synch physically, but the mental connection that they'd often displayed…silent.

"Yeah, a truck delivering a shipment of awesome. Nah, I just uh, flew into Vegas for the weekend. Just needed a little change of scenery." He bounced. Bounced. She saw a snowflake lazily drifting down, the light reflecting on it. Odd, no one had predicted snow.

She didn't dare consider the fact that they were inside the room at this point.

"And you won the blonde in a high stakes poker match?" She felt her blood slowing in response to the arctic air. Pumping slower through her body, threatening to coagulate and just stop moving altogether.

"No, I met her on the flight back." He grinned, an almost feral look masking his face.

"And you just gave her your car?"

"Jacinda happens to be a very trustworthy person. She's a first class flight attendant. It's not like I gave her my social security number."

The chill in his voice pinpointed the source of the icy air. She could feel waves of it rolling towards her, emanating from him. He'd blasted a freezer's worth of frost directly at her.

"Castle –," she slid to a stop. Tendrils of cold immediately radiated from the ground and invaded her toes, "—is everything okay?"

He stopped, and the look he gave her made goosebumps break out all over her body. She tightened her coat again, with little effect.

"Never better," he sneered and walked away. Kate was left, fully frozen to the ground as ice enveloped her like a glacier had crept over, preserving her anguish for millennia.

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 **So grateful for everyone's comments/favs and follows. Thank you!**

 **We're now 1/3 through the story. If you've made it this far, you can make it to the end. I hope.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Updating a day early as I'm working this weekend. Next update will be Monday, which works out nicely for the Monday Fanfic extravaganza. I'm publishing very early today, time wise, due to some fugly drama I'm dealing with at work and frankly I'm not sure I'll have time to do it before 5 or 6pm otherwise. I'd say 'enjoy' but this isn't a fun chapter, so I guess...sorry?**

 **I'd like to remind you of the trigger warning regarding suicidal thoughts/plans for this chapter.**

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Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Every mark of the next second came too fast. The time between, that was what she craved. Time spent apart from the rest of the world. Time spent separated from the pain.

She was so cold. Each movement threatened to fracture her into shards, as if she were the banana her chemistry professor in college had dipped in liquid nitrogen, and then had shattered by dropping it onto the tile floor. Once she splintered it would all be over. The prospect didn't terrify her. Instead, she wondered if by losing pieces of her then the hurt would disappear.

Perhaps, if she were able to be still long enough, the ice would completely solidify. In between the tick and the tock of the clock. But, despite being so still and quiet, she was still aware. The torment still burned within, enough of an ember to prevent her from fully freezing.

Looking up, she saw that he remained, waiting.

Watching her.

Taking cues from her body language. She'd said—shared—very little verbally, so far. Had only choked out the scene at the hotel, bad as it had been.

The rest—the worst—was yet to come. He had no idea. No clue that he was asking so much from her. Still, if telling him would release a little of the steam, it would be worth it. She could let go; find a way to be rid of this burden, this agony that tied her to _him._

If Dr. Burke could teach her not to love, it would be worth all the money in the world.

"Was it an interesting case?" It was rare that she could outwait her psychologist, but it happened occasionally. And it _had_ been an interesting case, or would have been if Castle hadn't congealed her by choosing to show up with that…that blonde…at the crime scene.

"Yeah, um, it was." Her voice was hoarse: croaky. She sounded like a Siberian frog. If there was such a thing. "It seemed like a straightforward robbery, at first glance, but the victim turned out to be a model." If only it had been a simple Jack killed Jill. But it hadn't been, and in the end it was complicated enough that it made everything that had happened much, much worse.

"I got to work with an agent from Scotland Yard. He knew the victim, and we soon discovered there was a lot more going on than was apparent."

"As your cases often do, Detective Beckett." He smiled warmly at her, but she couldn't return the gesture and his slowly faded. She'd hated this case, for so many different reasons.

Burke frowned, watching her. "But you found the killer? Solved it eventually?"

She nodded, unable to speak for the sudden lump in her throat. The first tear that fell gave more unwelcome evidence that she was still partially liquid inside. Burke leaned forward, handing her more Kleenex. She pressed a handful against her eyes, hoping that the pressure would staunch the flow as if it were a weeping wound.

"Kate, you told me that Mr. Castle came to the crime scene with a…date. And that you'd felt ready to finally talk to him, up until that moment. It would be difficult for anyone who wanted more from a relationship to be confronted with the person they want in their life dating someone else. You were feeling especially vulnerable at that moment, given your determination to talk to him. It must have been especially trying to work the case with him, under those circumstances."

Kate changed the now sodden tissue for more. She kept her eyes closed and curled tighter into her chair. If only dealing with Castle at the crime scene with his blonde _flight attendant_ had been all.

"I—I asked him if everything was ok. He was so…distant. But I thought, ok, maybe if we just get through this case, then I can talk to him. Let his little…thing…with the blonde die out and then we'd have a chance to sort things out. But…" She looked up. Dr. Burke was looking at her with the same expression he always had: interested, compassionate, but no pity. No pity.

"But, I couldn't figure out how to connect it all together. We had a suspect, a high ranking member of the British Consulate. We thought he was having an affair with the victim, though it didn't make sense. And his fingerprints didn't match. It was so frustrating, and I felt like I was losing control. I just wanted to solve the case so I could talk to him, but I couldn't solve it."

"I saw the paper from a few days ago. A—um—Nick Windmark, or something, was arrested for illegal arms dealing? You must have put it all together at some point."

She laughed, a bitter broken sound that died the moment it escaped her lips. "I didn't solve it. D.I. Hunt didn't solve it. No one from the force solved it. No, the person who broke the case against Nigel Wyndham was none other than the blonde stewardess. I'm sorry, I meant _flight attendant._ "

She'd surprised him. Not that it was obvious. But there had been a tiny wince, a slight shift of his body that betrayed him. If she hadn't been looking, she would have missed it. What did it mean when the recitation of events was bad enough to make your therapist blanch on your behalf?

"I don't understand. How was she part of this?"

"Castle, of course. " Her voice was a bitter, dry sound that she didn't even recognize anymore.

"How?"

How, indeed. A question she'd wrestled with for hour after sleepless hour. When had he started turning to flight attendants for advice? Turned away from her. When had she become superfluous? Not good enough for him? Taking a deep breath, she tried to explain the inexplicable.

"Well, it seems that Castle had taken a picture of a series of numbers and letters the victim had written down. We knew they were important, but no one could figure out how they fit in, or what they meant. Castle, being Castle, was sure they were a key—even when the rest of us had kinda given up on them. He'd gone to meet his…blonde…for lunch and showed them to her. Not the first time he's done that kind of thing—taken pics of the evidence, that is. As it turned out, she actually recognized them. They were a reference to diplomatic pouches, which are managed by the airlines. It broke the whole thing open, and led to the arrests you read about."

Another silence slithered out, though this one was short. She let him process the surprise of a stewardess solving the case. And not just _any_ stewardess. Castle's stewardess.

"Well, that was quite helpful to know, I'm sure, but you would have solved it eventually."

The specter of a smile twisted her lips. "I'm not so sure. They were very careful, and none of us had any idea where to go once the fingerprints were a bust. We might have figured it out, but it would've taken a lot longer."

"But it's ended now. In the paper and all, like I saw. So, where does that leave you with Mr. Castle? Have you had a chance to talk?"

Kate hugged herself tighter, rocking forward and back. "I wanted to." Her voice cracked and she could feel the tears welling up again as she replayed his words in her head again. The very words that hadn't left her brain for the three days since he'd uttered them. "I asked him, right after D.I. Hunt left the precinct and we were alone, finally. I asked, and do you know what he said?"

She rocked harder, trying to escape the harsh words reverberating in her brain. Nothing, not even sleep, had helped her forget them.

"He walked past me, told me that he didn't have time. That _Jacinda_ had the Ferrari double parked. I shouldn't have said anything more, but I was so hurt—I couldn't stop myself. I said something about how many dates they'd had. And he—he—he stopped and turned to me and asked, ' _Why?'_ And I didn't know what to say. He'd made it clear through the last few weeks that we were nothing more than partners. That I wasn't good enough for him. I finally just said something about her not seeming to be his type. If you could've seen his face right then….it was like he got even colder, even more distant."

A sob escaped her throat, though how it got past the hard bulge constricting her windpipe was a mystery.

"And that's when he—when he said that she was _fun and uncomplicated._ That that's what he needed in his life. And I knew, right then…I knew. I'm anything but fun. And, God knows, I'm complicated." She paused, trying to convey what it had meant to Dr. Burke. She felt it, festering deep in her heart. She'd been too late. Far too late.

"He's done with me. It was his way of telling me. He's moved on, away from me, and I don't know what to do. I don't know how to stop feeling this way."

"What is it that you feel?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm a mess."

Burke was looking at her, when she glanced up to see why he hadn't said anything. She hated this feeling—as though her very soul had been scrubbed raw. She glanced at her arms, half convinced she'd see blood dripping out of her pores. But no, that barrier still held. For now.

"I can guess, Kate. But it'd just be a guess. I'd like it if you'd tell me."

Her head was killing her, pounding in pain. Little to no sleep, nights spent crying and lying awake, listening to him reject her over and over. She just wanted to be left alone. Was that too much to hope for?

"Have you been eating? You look thinner than before."

She started, not having expected this kind of question. But, this was much easier to answer than how she felt.

"Yes. Some. A little, anyway. I've not felt like eating, to be honest. I feel sick, nauseous, most of the time and what little I manage often comes back up."

"What about sleeping?"

She just shook her head. He looked at her with a question that went unspoken and she found she couldn't stay silent. "I keep hearing what he said. Fun. Uncomplicated. It plays over and over and over in my brain. When I try to sleep, it just takes over. I feel like I'm drowning, that it's overwhelming me, and I can't resist. Can't pull myself up."

"You're overwhelmed?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Overwhelmed. I feel like I can barely function. All I hear is his voice. His rejection."

"Are you going in to work?"

"No." She looked him in the eyes once more, made sure he understood. "There's no current case, so Gates told me to stay home for a few days."

"Why would she do that?"

"I told her I was sick. Which, I am. At least when I eat. It's not a lie, exactly."

"That's fine, Kate. It's not a lie. I think you need to stay away from work, at least for now. You need to process this in order to start to heal, and burying it all in work is the wrong thing to do. It didn't help you when your mother died. This time it will be worse. We have to find you tools to deal with this."

"Deal with this?" She let out a dark chuckle. "Deal with the fact that even the man who said he loved me wants nothing to do with me? I'm toxic. No one with any degree of sanity would want me to be in their life."

"That's not true, Kate. You have a lot to offer, a lot to give—."

She interrupted before he could keep going. "My mother is dead. My father turned to alcohol rather than to me. My mentor is dead, my captain—a man like a second father to me—is dead. I only have one close friend, and I don't really let her in on what's going on in my head. And the man I—the man I love? He's dating a woman he met on a flight. At least he was honest when he told me what he wanted. Something that I can't give him, no matter what I do. Because, whatever you say, fun and uncomplicated have never, ever been used to describe me."

"Tell me what you feel," he prompted again. She sighed, deciding he wouldn't leave this alone until she complied.

"I feel sad. Sad that I've lost something that I never had. Seems stupid, but it's the truth." She looked off into the distance, looking out the window but not seeing anything. "I'm angry. Angry with him for telling me he loved me, then taking it back. But mostly angry at myself. For waiting too long. For not letting him know. Maybe it would have changed things. I don't know."

"You said you were overwhelmed, earlier."

"Yes. I just want to hide away and not come back. I can't imagine being able to face him, day in and out. Yet, the idea of not seeing him again is even more painful. I just want to stop loving him. Can't you teach me how to do that? How to turn it off?"

Burke shook his head. "I'm afraid there is no magical switch, Kate. But, I promise you that it will get better. With time. It takes time, and a willingness to talk about it."

Kate slumped at his words. It'd been a longshot.

"I need to ask you something, and I don't want you to misunderstand." He paused; waited for her to return her attention to him. "This is a question I often ask people who've been through as much as you have. Stress brings out a lot of negative emotions in people, as well as physical manifestations like you've noticed with the nausea and vomiting. Everything you're feeling is there for a reason, do you understand?"

She nodded, mildly curious as to where he was headed.

"People feeling overwhelmed cope in different ways. But I have to ask you, Kate: do you plan on hurting yourself?"

"Do you mean like killing myself? Suicide?"

"Yes."

Kate didn't answer right away. The hesitation seemed to answer, at least as far as Burke was concerned.

"Kate, what are you planning to do?"

"If I told you I had a plan, you'd just involuntarily commit me, wouldn't you?"

He regarded her steadily. "I'd do whatever I needed to in order to keep you safe. I have your best interests at heart—no one else's. Never forget that."

She dropped his gaze, unable and unwilling to let him see past her barriers at the moment. "I'll be honest," she started, speaking slowly. "I've thought about it. No more pain. It's an attractive thought. But, I don't have a plan. I know it's just a coward's way out. I've seen what has happened to some of the families of other cops who've eaten their piece. And even though I don't have much of a family, it's not something I'd put them through."

She looked up at him, hoping to see belief in his face. He just nodded at her, and relief clawed through her. At least this little piece of her life, her relationship with her therapist, was still working.

"If you ever feel that it's something that you might try, please call me. Or call this number," he wrote down a toll free number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. "This is a suicide hotline, and is staffed by people who will listen to you any time of the day or night. But, let's talk some more about finding some of the tools you're going to use to get better, ok?"

She took the card, running her thumb along the edge. If felt heavier than it should, but a good heavy. It grounded her; gave her a connection to the world that she hadn't had before.

She could do this. It would take Dr. Burke helping her. Would require hard work on her part. But it was possible.

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 **Thank you for all the responses.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Happy Castle FanFicMonday! We're now halfway through!**

 **Trigger warning for pregnancy complications.**

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A low rumble sounded as she sat slumped at her desk. Without looking, she knew it was for her. Yet more charts to review regarding the trial she was prepping for this week. The rumble slowed as the young officer pushing the cart hesitated, unsure if he should bother her or not.

"If those are for Detective Beckett, then put them in the Conference Room, please," she directed, eyes still closed.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you." The rumble resumed, thunder-like in both sound and feel as her chair softly vibrated in the wake of the heavy cart. A storm was coming. She could feel the tension in the air; could smell the ozone that permeated the precinct. The energy was inexorably ratcheting up, building to a point in which nothing and no one could contain it any longer. The only question now was who would be caught in the blast?

The urge to duck and cover made her long for the only place she really felt safe: her father's cabin, deep in the woods. Alone. But, she'd tried that tactic once and it had backfired spectacularly on her. This time she would face the storm—stand tall and unafraid in its fury. She'd worked for weeks with Dr. Burke to get to this point, only to find a deep desire to decamp in the face of danger.

She'd accepted that defying her demons would be difficult. The situation with Castle made it all worse, of course. If she could have stood with him by her side, as she'd envisioned him in her life just before the shooting, she thought it might have been…well, not easy. None of it was easy. But, with his support, perhaps less taxing than it all seemed to be when talking about it with Dr. Burke.

Even then, knowing that she'd somehow lost her chance with Castle and the heartache that this knowledge brought her, she felt it was feasible to achieve her goal alone. After all, she'd been alone most of her adult life. Not that she'd accomplished much, but at least it was a familiar situation.

In Dr. Burke's office, the possibility of triumphing over her own self-destructive patterns was tangible. She would channel her anxieties into behaviors that were positive. She would be more open, more accepting of help. Become closer with her friends and the little family she had left.

And deep within herself, in a place so secret that she was barely aware of it, she hoped and dreamed that maybe, just maybe, _he_ might take notice. See the Kate that had been buried so far below the surface for so many years that she wasn't even sure if she was alive anymore. A Kate that wasn't broken and bowed by all the losses in her life. He'd like that Kate—everyone would. Perhaps it would be enough. Bring back the possibility of _them_ once more.

But the safety of Dr. Burke's little nest was an illusion that hadn't held up to the harsh glare of the real world. The mental preparation for the flight of a fledgling was a far cry from all that was actually entailed, and she'd foundered not only from the mental anguish of _his_ continued icy treatment of her, but also due to a physical mutiny by her own body.

She'd not been anticipating the unceasing anxiety and anguish that his words had invoked within her. _Fun. Uncomplicated._ No matter what version of Kate that she and her therapist unearthed, those two descriptors would never, ever apply. If that was what he really wanted, well, she might as well give up now. The very prospect made her stomach roil. She couldn't eat; didn't sleep. A bottomless well of fatigue threatened to drown her in its depths. She'd fluttered to the ground instead of soaring in the sky, and she was running out of energy to keep jumping into the air, flapping furiously, only to fail again.

She sighed, trying to summon the motivation to get up and start looking through the boxes. She was ill-prepared for the trial, which would be starting soon—barring yet another delay. Before she found the strength to move, another rumble of thunder sounded near her ear. Warmer than the sound made from an overburdened cart, but still deep and dangerous.

"Coffee?"

Her heart leapt at the sound of his voice. His aura seemed to recharge her, and she hoped she didn't look too eager or hopelessly pathetic when she was pulled out of her drooping decay into a proper upright posture by his presence alone.

He sat on the edge of her desk, two coffees in hand. His face was unreadable, but he was here. They didn't even have a case—she'd not expected to see him at all. Had hoped, of course, but had thought it unreasonable.

Most of their partnership she'd encouraged him to spend the inevitable down-time away from the precinct. He wasn't learning anything by watching them do paperwork, and his childish behavior when bored could be counterproductive.

It was only now that she had lost him that she spent his time away wondering what he was doing. Imagining the grim possibilities. Torturing herself with images of him and Jacinda having a grand time, unfettered with the likes of the complicated and the un-fun.

Yet, here he was—right in front of her, not a blonde in sight. She couldn't help the huge grin that unfurled, as warmth raced through her body. He was here, and he'd brought her coffee. It was as though they were back to a time before he'd shown up with a flight attendant in a Ferrari.

He'd come back to her.

She reached for the coffee, suddenly impatient to taste the ambrosia that he'd brought. Was it a peace offering? An apology? Whatever it was, he'd brought it just for her. It was a start, and she was eager to show that she wanted his gift of coffee. That she wanted him. At the least a chance to talk, figure it all out.

"Hey, Castle. What are you doing here?" She cringed a bit at the inanity, and hoped she didn't sound accusatory. She was just so glad he was here, with her.

"I just haven't seen you in a few days, thought I'd drop by, see how you're doing." It had been 76 hours, if one were keeping track. She decided he probably hadn't. He gave her a polite smile, and while it wasn't much, it still launched a kaleidoscope of butterflies through her abdomen.

"Thank you, that's so sweet. Um, I'm great, actually." Now that you're here. "The trial prep is going really well, I've been getting home at a decent hour, and..." She lurched to a stop, giving him another big smile. "It's great to see you." So, so great.

"It's great to see you, too." His face and tone remained that of a polite stranger, and she felt her smile slipping just a bit. "Hey, listen. Do you know anything about this gang cop named Slaughter?"

Her heart dropped like a stone and she was grateful she was still seated as a wave of dizziness passed through her.

"The severed heads homicide? That's why you're here?" She heard the hurt in her voice and hoped he didn't notice. The cold mask that dropped over his face gave nothing away. Icy stings of worry and anxiety replaced the warmth she'd first felt on hearing his voice.

"Well, no. I mean, just since you're busy prepping for the trial, I just thought I'd look into this Slaughter guy, get a sense of who he is for the background research…the…the…" He trailed off as she swayed in her seat. The aroma from the coffee he'd brought her sent another wave of nausea tearing through and she had to fight to keep herself from vomiting on his Italian loafers. "Unless that's a problem."

She stood, too sick to consider running, tempting as it was. "No. Not a problem." She was proud she spoke without a quaver. She took a few trembling strides towards the bathroom, still not certain she'd make it there before losing control.

"Great. So…where would I find him?" His voice carried with her, trying to trip her feet and shoving away her semblance of dignity. She stopped, clenched her fists and took a deep breath through her nose before turning partway to face him again. He was still leaning nonchalantly against her desk, no hint of the devastation he'd wreaked evident in his eyes.

"Wherever the body is?" It was an obvious starting point, and had the added benefit of getting him out of the precinct all together. She pivoted away from him, maintaining her balance this time, and resumed her battle to make it to the bathroom.

Somehow, through some miracle, she not only made it to the women's room, but into a stall, before the storm broke. The bolt struck her, knocking her to her knees and violently expelling any bit of hope she'd had on seeing him, along with the tiny amount of fluid in her stomach. Retching until all she had left was dry-heaving, she sank into a ball on the floor in front of the toilet.

Standing tall in the storm had only made her a lightning rod. Her dreams incinerated, she had no idea how to try and pull herself back together…or if she even wanted to.

* * *

The sharp, shrill sound of Donna Summer belting out "Hot Stuff" broke the silence of the apartment. She was sitting on the floor next to her bed, staring into the dusky light that barely penetrated the small window of the room. She knew who was calling without even needing to look—Castle had changed the ringtone on her phone months ago.

The reminder of how intertwined their lives had been…before…threatened tears all over again, but if she didn't answer there would be more calls until she did. She'd tried that yesterday, until giving up when the phone rang for the sixth time in a row.

"I'm fine, Lanie."

"Does that mean 'I'm fine, Lanie' as in you're actually improving or that you just want me to _think_ you're better so I'll stop checking on you?"

"The nausea's better, I swear. And I'm not puking anymore. I'm sure it was just a bug, that's all."

Through some quirk of fate, Gates had walked into the bathroom about fifteen minutes after she'd become sick two days prior. Apparently, her very-recognizable boots had been seen beneath the door of the stall. Given that she'd been lying on the floor at the time, it hadn't taken a rocket scientist to figure out something was wrong.

She'd been sent home, and for once she'd not protested. There was no case to bury herself in, and she had no desire to sit around and watch as Castle chased after his newest interest. Slaughter was the kind of cop she hated: one who cut corners, was sloppy and could care less about the victims. All he cared about was finding someone to throw in jail, guilty or not.

So, when she'd been given orders to stay home until she was better, she'd obeyed. Lanie had seemed a bit suspicious of her desire to be at home, but after visiting her the first night and finding her looking ' _like one of my corpses_ ,' she'd contented herself with calling. Every day.

Grimacing, she pressed a hand into her right side, trying and failing to stifle a grunt of pain.

"Kate? What's wrong?"

Breathless, Kate shook her head.

"Kate? What's going on? Why are you panting?"

The knife-like pain that had been intermittently accosting her for the last few hours faded, letting her regroup.

"It's nothing, Lanie."

"It sure didn't sound like nothing from this end. Now, tell me what's going on before I decide to march right over there and _make_ you tell me."

Sighing, she rolled her eyes at her friend's brass. However, she knew better than to ignore her. Lanie expected an answer, and was more than capable of carrying out her threat if she wasn't satisfied with the response.

"I promise that the nausea is better. But, just today, I've had a few pains on my right side. I think I must have strained a muscle or something when I was puking so hard."

"Hmm. On your right side? Could it be your appendix?"

"Not unless I had two. I had mine out when I was seven."

"Does it hurt all the time, or just once in a while?"

"Just occasionally, Lanie, I swear. It's not that big of a deal. I'm definitely better, I promise."

There was a short silence on the other end of the line, then a snort. "Alright, Kate Beckett. But if you feel any worse, I want you to call me. Or your doctor. And don't think I'm not gonna check on you later, cause I will."

"I'm _fine_. I really am."

"Uh huh. Still gonna call."

"Whatever, suit yourself. But make it before nine; I might go to bed early."

Hanging up with Lanie, Kate glanced at the clock. It was just past five in the evening. Her appetite still hadn't recovered, but she decided some tea might be nice. She'd not been able to drink coffee since _he'd_ brought her the cup at the precinct. Just thinking about it made her green, though due to his abandonment, not the coffee itself.

Stiffly standing up from the floor, she couldn't help but groan. She'd been sitting there for far too long, lost in her regrets and recriminations. Deciding to veer into the bathroom first, she clutched her right side as a violent twinge of pain shot through her. Perhaps it was time to take some Tylenol, now that her stomach had calmed down.

Lost in thoughts circling back around to Castle and his new partner, she didn't notice the blood until she stood up from the toilet. She'd been late this month, though her cycle was variable at times and the stress of the past week…weeks, really…had taken its toll.

Grumbling, she'd bent down to retrieve a tampon from the cabinet when she was overcome with a wave of dizziness. The whole room spun, as she collapsed onto the floor. Reaching for her phone, she cursed when her pockets were all empty. She must have left it in the bedroom.

Trying to sit up brought on such dizziness that she gave up the idea and clung to the floor. ' _I'll call Lanie as soon as this passes. Time for a doctor.'_ What seemed like hours crawled by, but just as the dizziness seemed to be lightening a bit, the pain returned.

However, this was no twinge. She curled tighter and tighter into herself, unable to find a position that helped. Tears streamed down her face as she moaned out loud. Hoping a neighbor might hear, she tried shouting for help, but the croak that jumped out of her throat wouldn't have summoned anyone from her living room, let alone a neighbor's place.

The knife-like pain was unrelenting, and just as she thought she couldn't take it anymore, a burst of agony beyond any she'd ever felt exploded like a supernova. The bright white pain surged through her, her only thought of relief as she succumbed to the black hole that pulled her in behind it.

* * *

 **Comments and/or pitchforks welcome.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Planning on updating every other day at this point. Hope no one objects.**

* * *

"This is a bad idea."

"Hush. No, it's not."

"You're right. It's a _terrible_ idea. Muy mala."

Lanie stopped in her tracks, one hand on her hip and the other pointing directly at him as he turned back to face her. "Now, you listen here, Javier Esposito. We are doing this, whether or not you plan on complaining about it the whole time. So, if you're still wanting to go back to my place afterwards, then you damn well better shut up and just humor me, ok?"

"Ok, ok. I get it. No more complaining." He trudged after her, admiring her ass as concern lent her shorter legs a speedier pace. She was several steps ahead of him, so he felt safe in muttering a few select phrases in Spanish about his _amante loca._ Quietly, of course. His mama hadn't raised no fool.

"What's our story again?" he reached out and grabbed her arm, slowing her down just enough that she didn't completely outpace him.

Her head swiveled around, eyes narrowed and a frown marring her beautiful face. "Story? Whaddya mean, our story?"

"You know, like we happened to be walking by and decided to drop in, or…I know, we'll buy somethin' at the store, like soup or somethin' and tell her we wanted to give it to her. Our story," he trailed off as she cocked one eyebrow sky high and kept staring at him, shaking her head slightly. "What? We need a story. So she don't kill us for droppin' by unannounced."

Lanie gave a big sigh and resumed walking, though not as fast as before. "We don't need a story, Javi. She's been sick," each word was punctuated, as if he were a child with limited understanding. All he knew was that Beckett liked her privacy. Dropping by unannounced? That was definitely a violation of said privacy. "I talked to her earlier, told her I'd call again. She's not answering. Therefore, we're making sure she's ok."

"Yeah, but didn't you say she felt better? What if she went out, or she's tryin' to sleep or—or she's got a friend over?"

She stopped again, this time making him stumble since she had his arm in a death grip. "She was having some pains, enough to make her pant until it went away. Does that sound better to you?"

He shook his head. Beckett was well acquainted with pain. If it was bad enough that Lanie'd picked up on it over the phone, then it wasn't a trivial matter.

"Now, she _might_ be asleep, but she's gonna wake up and tell me she's fine if she wants to get back to bed. And just what do you mean by a friend being over? I'm her friend. You think if I were there she'd not answer the phone if it rang like eight times in a row from another friend?"

He rolled his eyes. Women could sometimes be so…complicated. "Not _that_ kind of friend. You know, a _friend_ friend." He lifted his eyebrows speculatively, hoping she'd catch on without pushing him further.

She gaped at him for a moment before giving him a sharp finger poke in the shoulder and walking off alone.

"Hey, what was that for?" he complained, rubbing where she'd jabbed him. Woman had some powerful punch behind that pretty package.

"Because, you're an idiot sometimes, that's why. Now, come on. I'm worried about her. Got a bad feeling in my gut."

This time, he kept his thoughts to himself.

* * *

"Maybe she's not home. You've knocked like a million times." That observation earned him a glare.

"What if she's lying in there, helpless?"

"And what if she's down at the corner store, gettin' some coffee? Let's just wait a bit."

"Javi, there may not be time. Let me try calling her again." She whipped out her phone and punched redial. Instead of putting the handset up to her ear, she leaned against the door to Beckett's apartment.

"Listen," she hissed, eyes lighting up. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Come closer," she motioned. He humored her, and sure enough when he neared the door the faint strains of ' _Hot Stuff'_ could be heard.

"That's her ringtone for you? Um, that's a bit weird, dontcha think?"

"Shhh," she waved him down, and then switched the phone off. "Castle put that on there a few months ago. You know how he was always messin' with her stuff. Now, we know her phone's in there. What're we gonna do next?"

"You got a key?"

"Do you honestly think we'd still be standing out here if I had a key? No, I don't have a key. This is _Kate_ we're talking about. She doesn't just _share_ keys."

"I could try and find the super…."

"At this time of night? We might be waiting for an hour or more." She looked at him through her lashes and licked her lips with the very tip of her tongue. "Do you think you could break the door down? It's awfully thick." Her voice was low and a little husky, and he couldn't stop thinking about that wicked tongue.

"Oh, I can break it down." He flexed, just a little, then deflated. "But Beckett would kill me."

Lanie stomped her foot, just slightly, but enough to startle him. "Javi, I'll pay for the damn door! Just get the thing open."

"Ok, but it's your fault if she shoots me." He knocked one more time, and called out, "Beckett? I'm coming in. Don't shoot."

It took three good kicks and he had to flash his badge at the old lady who lived down the hall, but he got the door open. Strutting inside, he saw the place looked as tidy and clean as it always had.

"I don't think she's home. Dial the phone again, see where it's at."

Lanie walked into the bedroom, following the sound of Donna Summer while he started whistling the same song and peeked into the kitchen. It was neat as a pin, nothing out of place.

"Huh," he heard Lanie mutter as she walked back out of the bedroom carrying two phones, eyes downcast. "It was just sitting on her bed. I guess she did leave it. Now I feel stupid."

He strode over to her, reaching out and rubbing her arms gently. "Hey, now. She'll know how worried you were. It'll be ok."

She looked up at him, tears brimming in her eyes. "I was worried. I _am_ worried. But she must be ok if she's not here, right?"

"Yeah, chica, I'm sure she is. Now, what're we gonna do about that door? We gonna wait for her to come home?"

Lanie nodded, and they settled briefly on the couch. She cuddled up to him, and he was just thinking about how nice it was to hold her in his arms when she suddenly stiffened and sat up. "Did you check the bathroom?" she asked, eyes full of renewed anxiety.

He shook his head. "Nope. Not really sure where it is, to be honest."

She leapt up. "I can't relax until I know it's empty. Be right back." She strode off, and he sat back, indolent now that the crisis seemed over. He let his thoughts drift forward a few hours to what he planned to be doing with her in the privacy of her bedroom.

"Javi!" She screamed his name, and for just a brief moment he thought he was imagining her crying out in his fantasy.

The blood curdling wail that followed was no part of any fantasy he'd ever indulged in.

"JAVI!" The fear and desperation palpable in her voice was like a wild animal clamped onto his neck. His hair stood on end and he felt his guts vibrate, threatening incontinence. He would never forget that shriek, as long as he lived. It would stalk his nightmares and hide in the deep recesses of his brain, ready to pounce at the first sign of fright. But nothing that he ever faced—for the rest of his life—would ever be quite as terrifying as her screaming his name from Beckett's bathroom.

Nothing.

* * *

Rick didn't think he'd ever been so scared in his life as he'd been yesterday. Slaughter had basically waltzed into the salvage yard in the Bronx where Vales was hanging with what looked like twenty well-armed henchmen. Without any backup, unless you counted a writer who'd been tossed a back-up piece.

Which Rick decidedly did not.

He still wasn't sure how they'd made it out alive, after Slaughter had pulled his gun on Vales, prompting all the henchmen to pull out everything from semi-automatics to high powered rifles. Talk about a Mexican Standoff.

Yet, somehow Slaughter had managed to bluster his way out of it once more. Rick was rapidly coming to the conclusion that this whole decision to tail someone other than Beckett had been about the worst idea he'd had, and that was including his two ex-wives.

He would have loved to talk over the situation with someone, maybe figure out a way to bow out gracefully, but he'd not seen Beckett or the boys for days. Beckett was likely at the trial she'd been prepping for, but he hoped the boys didn't have some interesting case that they were pursuing without him.

If only he'd listened to Espo in the beginning. He'd tried to tell him that Slaughter was bad news, but he'd been so desperate to get away from Beckett for a while. Slaughter had appealed in that he was nearly a polar opposite of his former partner. But that appeal had quickly been erased.

This morning, when his phone had buzzed with the message from Slaughter telling him where to meet, he'd had to fight the urge to pull the covers over his head and ignore the whole thing. But, he wasn't a quitter. Which was why he climbed into the passenger seat of Slaughter's department-issued sedan an hour later.

"You don't listen to those whiners, Sherlock. You got balls. And yeah, I may have needlessly put you in a little harm's way there with Vales, but seeing as it paid off?"

Slaughter's usual mix of bravado and bullshit had lost all of its charm. He couldn't even remember why he'd ever thought it interesting in the first place. He was about to tell him to take his half-hearted apology and shove it when he finally processed the very last words the man had thrown at him. Wait, what?

"What do you mean, paid off?"

Suddenly there was a pounding from the trunk. Each blow seemed to hit him in the solar plexus. His stomach dropped. This was not going to turn out well.

He took no pleasure in being proven right. Slaughter had grabbed Gilberto Mendoza, the so-called weak link in the Vales organization. Apparently, the preferred interrogation technique for Slaughter was to start with physical abuse. It only ended after Rick had agreed to speak on Slaughter's behalf at a civilian review board meeting for excessive force.

He just couldn't bring himself to think about the irony.

Of course Slaughter then didn't even seem to care that he threw the brakes on just before it appeared that a delivery van was going to crush Rick's side of the car. All in a day's work to the crazy cop, but for Richard Castle it was the last straw.

Almost.

He was stuck with Slaughter—he'd been driving and Rick had no idea where they were. An industrial area, sparsely populated. The perfect place to soften up a suspect, apparently. When Slaughter pulled Gilberto out of the trunk and threatened his little brother, Rick was ready to walk away and see if he could figure out where the hell they were and call a cab. The problem was that he felt guilty about leaving the kid alone with Slaughter. Not that the asshole listened to him…much. But what would he do without him there?

Then, when Gilberto confessed that Vales killed Glitch, Rick could almost hear the clang of prison bars slamming shut—or was that the trap that kept him tied to this deranged detective? He offered up the Twelfth's precinct for the interrogation, since Slaughter didn't really belong anywhere. He hoped by taking Gilberto there, that if Slaughter lost it at least there were people around that knew Rick. They'd help if things got out of control.

When they paraded their 'perp' through the precinct and he didn't see Beckett or the boys anywhere, he got a little concerned. The trial had to be over by now, surely? Or at least Kate…Beckett's part in it.

He stood in the observation room and watched, with growing disbelief, as Slaughter essentially coached Gilberto into a confession. The story, which made sense superficially at least, was that Vales had wanted to horn in on turf occupied by the Westies and the Jamaicans. He'd convinced Glitch to dig up the 3 Jamaicans' bodies, cut off their heads and use it to spark a gang war between the two rivals. Vales had then killed Glitch and made it appear that the Jamaicans had done it for revenge.

The problem was that Gilberto had no idea how many times Glitch had been shot. Slaughter had to tap it out on the table for him to get the details right. It was all one big lie and all Rick knew was that he didn't want it crashing down on him.

Slaughter swaggered out of the interrogation room, a sight that made Rick sick to his stomach.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Closing this case. I got an arrest warrant for Vales burning a hole in my pocket."

"You coached that kid through his interrogation."

"Nah, nah, I just…refreshed…his recollection."

"Really? Because the way he was talking he didn't even witness that murder."

Slaughter put his hand on Rick's chest, stopping whatever else he was about to say.

"Hey. Vales has bodies on him like you wouldn't believe: women, children, cops. I got a chance to put him away and I'm gonna take it. The question is, are you in or out?"

Rick narrowed his eyes. "I guess I'm out."

"Well, that's a shame. I had high hopes for you, Sherlock. Never thought you'd punk out on me like this." He turned and strode out, leaving Rick watching. He felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders until he caught a glimpse of Gilberto slumped in his seat in the interrogation room. He had to make this right, somehow.

Pivoting, he surveyed the bullpen. The desks of the three people he most wanted to see remained empty, mocking him. His eyes traveled further, then snapped back to Gates' office. Was that?

It was. Ryan and Espo were in her office. Thank goodness. He'd just wait for them, ask them for help. He had no doubt they'd offer support—they were friends. Partners, of a sort.

He continued watching them as he waited, and soon observed that it was Espo doing most of the talking. Neither Ryan nor Gates looked very happy, and something that Espo said must have been truly shocking as Gates' hand flew to her mouth and Ryan stared at the floor, shoulders slumped. He looked like someone had just kicked his puppy in front of him.

It didn't take much longer for them to finish, and he watched as the two men shuffled out of the captain's office, frames bent by some unseen burden.

"Hey, guys. I was wondering if you'd mind helping me with something?" He watched as they both mindlessly grabbed their coats, as if they'd not heard him. "Guys?" There was sorrow etched in both of their faces, and…fear? His heart started pounding as he tried to figure out what on earth was going on.

"Whaddya need, Castle?" Ryan asked, tired eyes trained on him as Espo shut his computer down.

"Well, you see, it's Slaughter. He just…"

"I told you that guy was bad news, Castle." Espo's tone was harsh. Rick's neck stiffened and he felt a wave of heat flash through his body, but tamped down his response. He was asking for help, after all.

"I know, I know, but now he's really gone too far. He's got the wrong guy and…"

"Listen, whatever it is he's got you mixed up in, well, too bad. You chose to follow him over us—."

"Chose to? I didn't…"

"—And now you gotta figure it all out by yourself. We don't got time for this, ok? You comin', Ryan?" Espo stalked off and Rick cocked his head, looking over at Ryan with his mouth gaped open.

"What in the world was that all about?"

Ryan just stared at him for a second, and then shuffled his feet. "It's been a rough day. Javi's not himself—none of us are. Sorry we can't back you."

As Ryan was turning away, Rick's mouth went dry. He had to find help, had to. Would even take it from people—or a particular person—he'd really, really prefer not to deal with right now. "What about Beckett? Maybe she'd take time out of her _busy_ schedule with the trial since you guys won't help me." It came out sounding harsh and sarcastic, even to him, but he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice when he talked about _her_.

He watched in confusion as Ryan stumbled, then stopped and turned. His face was a mask, but his caustic reply hit Rick with the force of a howitzer. "No, Castle. She can't help you, either. You've no idea, do you? I've got to get to the ho...nevermind. Espo's waiting. You'll have to find someone else to babysit you."

Blood pounded in Rick's ears and his vision clouded over as Ryan turned his back on him and left him standing alone. None of them wanted to help him? _He_ was the one who'd been lied to, all this time. _He_ was the one they ought to be begging to come back, not the other way around. Well, he'd written best-selling books for years before he'd ever met _them._ He didn't need them. He was better off without them.

* * *

 **Comments?  
**

 **I'm going to reiterate my initial A/N: this fic is an exploration of what I think it might take to drive Kate Beckett to the edge. It is not fluffy. While there is a happy ending, the path to get there is dark and tragic. Chapter 9 is the worst it will be. I never expected this topic to draw a lot of interest, and if you've had enough, I understand. I wrote it when I was in a (relatively) dark place, and I wrote it because I felt I had to. So, sorry if I'm bumming you out, but you don't have to keep reading. For those who do, I am more than grateful for your comments/tweets/PMs.  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**Trigger warnings for pregnancy loss**

* * *

Secrets.

Lies.

He was so fucking _sick_ of it all.

 _She'd_ lied to him for months, probably laughing behind her back at how pathetic he was. How he'd followed her around in some piteous attempt to fit in, trying to be something he wasn't. She'd known for months how he'd felt, and had lied to his face about her own memory of the event.

He'd been so angry that he'd willingly cast her aside for Slaughter—a move that he now conceded had been a mistake. However, just because he'd made an error in following someone so unlike the _great_ Detective Beckett didn't mean that he was wrong for being so mad in the first place.

It had hurt—made worse by the feelings that he had for her. Feelings that she clearly didn't return. He was determined to forget her, to move on. His mother was right about love not being a switch, much as he'd love to turn off the unrequited emotions.

The best thing to do was to stop putting himself in situations where he couldn't help think about her. He still wanted to continue to do police work, if he could. This desire had been one reason he'd thought Slaughter was a good candidate to replace her: he caught interesting cases, and there was _no_ chance he'd fall in love with him.

In the end, it had been the values she'd taught him that'd kept him questioning everything that Slaughter did. Not his basic moral code—he'd had that instilled in him as a child by his mother. But Beckett had taught him how to do an investigation the proper way, and that even if the outcome weren't what you wanted, the truth was all that mattered.

Slaughter wouldn't have recognized the truth if it had hit him over the head. Not if it didn't give him the outcome he wanted: Vales in jail.

So, after the boys both left him hanging, he'd gone to Gates. She'd been her usual unapproachable self, and had listened to his concerns without saying anything until he'd trailed off. For a sickening second she'd stood there silently and Rick had imagined that she was about to send him packing. However, she'd just given him a nod (dare he imagine a respectful nod?) and summoned Karpowski to help him. Between the two of them, they'd managed to figure out that Glitch couldn't have been killed by Vales.

After that, it was a matter of digging through traffic cam footage and walking the scene, where nothing made sense until they found a pay phone nearby. That broke the case, as they found that Glitch had called his father. Ultimately, it was the grizzled mob veteran trying to clean up after his mistake-prone son one too many times that proved to be the murderer. Brian had had enough, and made sure Glitch never made another mistake again.

It'd been such a relief to have discovered the real killer; he hadn't even minded so much when Slaughter had punched him in the gut—a little parting gift. Payment for the mistake of following him around, perhaps.

The worst part, though, wasn't Slaughter or the fact that a father killed his son for being an incompetent criminal. Those were both bad, no doubt. But the very worst was that he was thinking about Kate Beckett more than ever. Something was off, and since he was at the Twelfth for long hours as they wrapped up the case he could feel the tension and the anxiety that pervaded the precinct—it was almost palpable.

The boys were barely seen—just a glimpse here and there of them grabbing something from their desks or closeted with Gates. Their visits so brief that he'd just see them passing by as he and Karpowski worked on something: there were no opportunities to catch them and find out what was going on.

Karpowski herself was as clueless as he was, or at least claimed to be. Nothing she said or did disabused him of that notion, so he didn't push her. He was just glad she was helping him.

Beckett was nowhere to be seen. The more he thought about her absence, the more certain he was that something was going on with her. It would fit with Espo and Ryan's odd behavior. Just thinking about her made his blood boil: he'd promised himself he would _forget_ about her, yet she occupied his mind as much as before. It pissed him off, and he'd taken stronger measures to forget—distracting himself with all kinds of activities. Only to find as the case had wound down that she was still gone.

None of it had been any use. He _had_ to know.

So here he was, once again trying to figure out the great mystery involving Beckett. The big secret that everyone was keeping from him. Asking someone directly would violate his decision to move past her; forget about her. And it was probably something stupid, anyway—he was just building it up in his head with his writer's imagination turning a molehill into a mountain. He cursed himself for a fool, but he couldn't drop it. It was tearing him apart, just like the other secret she'd kept from him.

The woman would be the death of him.

* * *

The beeping wouldn't stop. It was like the tone from an alarm clock, but too slow and persistent to be one. She tried to ignore it, tried to remain asleep, but it wouldn't go away. It tickled her memory—she'd heard something like it before.

The irritation of figuring out what it was sent her towards wakefulness. Her body felt heavy, her mind unnaturally slow. It was all very familiar, just like…

After her shooting. With the realization, her eyes flew open. Sure enough, the pale walls and mysterious equipment of a hospital room surrounded her. She tried to move her left arm—wipe her eyes so she could see better—but it felt as though a lead weight were holding it down.

A muffled groan escaped her lips, which in turn made her cough. Agony shot through her belly , but she couldn't suppress the need to clear her lungs. What the hell had happened to her?

"Kate?" Lanie's drowsy voice sounded from the right side of the bed. "Are you awake again?"

Again? She didn't remember being awake, period.

"Water," she croaked, and her friend appeared with a small, white Styrofoam cup and straw within seconds. It tasted like sweet nectar to her parched throat.

The waves of pain from her belly were ebbing slowly. Looking down her body, there was an odd lump over her abdomen, though it was covered by her hospital-issued gown. She looked back over to her friend, who was now sitting in a plastic chair next to her bed. Lanie's eyes were boring into her.

"I'm so glad you're awake again," she rushed out. "You look so much better, this time. Do you remember anything?"

Kate shook her head. It was a complete mystery to her.

"Well, last time you were just awake for a minute or two. Your dad was with me, then. Before that, it was just a second or two of opening your eyes, and then you were gone again. Everyone's going to be so relieved!"

Kate's throat constricted. Whatever had happened seemed serious. Had she been shot again? The need to know overwhelmed her.

"Lanie?" This time her voice was less scratchy, though it was still deep and unfamiliar sounding. Lanie reached over and grabbed her hands, giving them a tight squeeze. "What happened?"

Lanie's eyes immediately fell, and she tried to withdraw her hands, but Kate held tight—a life raft in a sea of the unknown. Her friend looked up at her, surprise and sorrow mingling in her gaze.

"Do you remember anything?"

Kate cast her mind back. She'd been sick…,"I talked to you. I was having some abdominal pain."

Lanie nodded. "I told you I'd check on you later, but you didn't answer my calls."

Kate hesitated, not sure what was real and what was part of the hazy dreams she could barely recall, the gossamer of their existence not strong enough to withstand full consciousness. "I went into the bathroom, and had started my period. But when I bent down to get a tampon…I was so dizzy. I fell down." She stopped, closing her eyes at the memory. "There was this sudden pain—in my belly. Then it all went dark." She opened her eyes again, looking at Lanie with the need to know begging from her eyes. "That's all I remember."

"I got worried, so I made Javi come over with me to your place. We ended up breaking your door down, and I found you unconscious in the bathroom. We called for a bus, and you were rushed here."

"How long?"

"Two days ago."

Kate gasped and the electronic beep recording her heart rate sped up. Two days! She'd lost two days, somehow. "What happened?"

"You had to have emergency surgery. You were so sick afterwards: they kept you on a ventilator because your blood pressure was pretty low. You lost a lot of blood. But, they took the breathing tube out this morning, and we've just been waiting for you to wake up all the way."

Kate's thoughts froze on the word _surgery._ Why did she need surgery? "Was I shot again?"

Lanie's eyebrows rose and she frowned. "Shot? No, you weren't shot. Why do you think you were shot?"

"I had surgery. Wait. Was it…was it my appendix? I thought it was gone."

Lips pressed together, Lanie turned her head away before turning back with a pleading look. "Kate, did you know why you were sick? Why you were vomiting and felt nauseous?"

Kate's brow furrowed as she thought. Nodding, she explained, "Dr. Burke told me it was part of the anxiety I had over Ric…Castle's change in behavior.

"Well, I guess that might have been part of it, but it wasn't the main reason." Lanie looked at her, waiting for an epiphany that Kate just didn't have in her.

"Lanie, I'm tired, in pain, and probably drugged after surgery. I can't think straight, let alone figure out what on earth you're trying to tell me. Just spit it out, ok?"

Taking a deep breath, her friend squeezed her hands again. "Sweetie, remember telling me about the night that Castle called you? It was about six weeks ago. He'd been drinking?"

Bowing her head, Kate thought back. What did that night with Rick have to do with anything? Unless…no. No. No, it couldn't be.

"You slept with him. Now, I don't know everything about your sex life, but I'm pretty sure he's the only guy you've been with. Time frame fits. You were pregnant and…"

A loud roaring sound filled Kate's ears as she watched Lanie's mouth keep moving but couldn't hear anything she said. Pregnant. She was carrying his child.

"I'm pregnant?" Her voice trembled and a warmth flooded her body, as if she'd swallowed a tiny piece of the sun. Golden rays radiated through her and she felt lighter, almost floating in place. A baby. _His_ baby.

She wanted kids, someday. Wanted them with Rick, for sure. This would obviously change things between them. He'd have to be told about the baby. She was sure he'd want to be involved, even if the two of them couldn't work out their personal life together. He was an amazing dad—she wouldn't keep him from being one again.

But, a flare of hope sprang up from the suddenly fertile ground surrounding her. Perhaps this was what they needed. They'd be forced to talk, to be more honest and open with each other. Maybe this would be the catalyst to finally getting on the same page.

"Does he know?" she quavered. It had been two days; maybe he'd already been told. She'd have liked to see the excitement in his eyes; to have been the one to tell him. But she'd been here, wherever here was, having some sort of surgery.

"Does who know? Castle? No, he doesn't know." Lanie was giving her an odd look. "Only the boys and Gates know, besides your dad and me. I told the boys not to say anything, since you were unconscious. I was just trying to protect you: protect your privacy."

"Have to tell him now. A baby." Kate couldn't help the small smile that escaped as she thought about the tiny life she was harboring. A little boy or girl who might look like him. Or her—or a perfect combination of the two. An image flashed into her head of a little girl, brown curls and blue eyes and she knew, as sure as she could be, that she carried a little girl. A beautiful girl who'd have them all wrapped around her tiny fingers as soon as she was born.

She hoped Alexis would be okay with the news. Her own father would be shocked, since he had no idea she'd been…involved with anyone. But once he was over the shock, she was confident he'd be ecstatic. A grandchild, someone to spoil. And Martha. Martha was sure to be thrilled for them as well.

She just had to figure out where Rick stood with her. Could they be together? Or would he still reject her? He'd accept the baby, of that she had no doubt. But whether the two of them could be more than amicable for the child's sake remained to be seen. All she knew was that she had another chance, and she had to try. Had to make him see how great they'd be together, if he'd just _try_ with her.

"Kate, were you listening to what I told you?" Lanie didn't look happy—not at all. She had tears in her eyes and her hands were shaking slightly as she clutched hers.

"What? What is it, Lanie?" Kate's stomach rolled and a sour taste filled her mouth. She shivered, suddenly feeling a chill that emanated from within as the warmth that seemed to radiate from her core abruptly flamed out, leaving only cold ashes behind.

"Kate, I said you _were_ pregnant." She paused and Kate watched as tears tracked down her friend's face. They glittered like snowflakes in the light. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

A sharp pain erupted in the back of her throat; she couldn't swallow. She was drowning in her own tears. "No! No, no, no. No, Lanie, please."

Lanie was openly sobbing now, but tried to wipe some of Kate's tears away with a gentle hand. "I'm so, so sorry. There was nothing they could do. The egg implanted in your Fallopian tube. It ruptured as the embryo grew. You nearly died, Kate. You nearly died."

* * *

 ***ducks and slinks out of the room***


	9. Chapter 9

**So, at this time I was _supposed_ to be on the road, trailer hitched to my truck and headed west. Stormy weather on I-70 has delayed that plan. Instead, I'm preparing to break camp with all kinds of little chores/big chores-not the least of which is dumping my holding tanks so I can shower. Anyway, won't be able to check in as often as other days, but I hope you all have a great day!**

 **This is the worst it will be, at least emotionally, in my opinion. So hang on, and know that it will only start to (slowly) get better in the next few chapters.**

 **Trigger warnings for suicidal thoughts.**

* * *

"Hello, Kate."

She groaned, though it was soft enough to be inaudible to her visitor. Why couldn't everyone just leave her alone? She didn't want company; couldn't stand the abject pity in their eyes as they regarded her. They felt _sorry_ for her, but they had no idea what it all felt like to her.

Rent…into pieces.

Shattered; smashed; severed from all she'd held close.

Fractured.

If her heart were visible, she'd always imagined that it would have appeared as an elaborate and stunning stained glass window. When she'd been young, and had parents, the sheet had been a kaleidoscope with mullions separating brilliant colors and complex patterns. She'd been whole, and beautiful. A work of art, cherished and cosseted by the love of her family.

Her mother's murder and her father's abandonment had cast a pall over her and dulled the vivid colors: muted them to a monochromatic display of grays and blacks. She'd still been functional, but a shadow of her former self.

Richard Castle's incursion into her life had lifted the pall. It had been a gradual process, and initially she wouldn't have said he was anything but a negative influence, in general. However, it hadn't taken long for him to infiltrate many of the defense mechanisms that protected her so comprehensively—most of the time. He'd brought sunlight and joy back into her life, and she'd begun to sparkle once more.

Then the events of the last month and a half had splintered her heart into millions of tiny shards. They surrounded her now, a waterless moat of glinting glass. The tiny circle of friends and family that remained to her stood well outside of it, and every attempt they made to reach her just scattered the fragments into more chaos.

With time and a lot of work, she might be capable of taping the pieces back into some semblance of its former glory. She wasn't sure she had the energy to even start. What did it matter? She was irretrievably broken, and the one person who _might_ be able to reassemble it with her into a whole once more couldn't stand to see her anymore.

Wouldn't even want to, were he to know the whole truth.

She lay still, hoping without believing that her visitor would just give up and let her return to the silent, stagnant seclusion that she now merited.

"Kate?"

He wouldn't walk away content with her remaining mute. He'd never allowed it before, so why she thought she might get away with it now was a question that wasn't even worth considering. He wouldn't let her, so she might as well face him.

It was a surprise, of sorts, that he was here at all. She supposed Lanie had called him, or perhaps her dad or one of her doctors. None of them, not even the professionals in the white coats, could mask that they were concerned about her mental state. This visit had been inevitable, but she'd figured it would be after she'd been discharged from the hospital, not before.

She opened her eyes and feigned stretching, as if she'd just woken up. He likely saw right through it, but was too polite to mention it. Turning gingerly in her bed to minimize the pulling pain from her stitches, she greeted him without a smile.

No one got a smile anymore, even a fake one.

"Dr. Burke."

"May I come in?" He was standing in the doorway, appearing hesitant to bother her. She knew better. He was here to assess her, and he wouldn't go away until he was satisfied.

Instead of answering, she just indicated the chair next to the bed. It would be _his_ choice to enter, not her invitation. Of course, it didn't really matter, as he came in without waiting any further. But, it made a difference to her. This was being forced upon her, not asked for.

Not asked for at all.

He settled in the chair, smoothing his pants down with his hands and then carefully placing his coat in a neat pile on the neighboring chair. If she hadn't known him better, she might have thought he was stalling before he was forced to address her. Everything he did was deliberate—she knew that from their many hours spent together. This charade was intended for her to relax; adjust to his presence and thus be prepared to bear her soul.

Yet, knowing it was intended to put her at ease didn't mean it wouldn't work. The two of them had built a relationship of trust and respect through their previous meetings. She found herself thinking about how she would describe things to him—of what to say so that it made some modicum of sense.

After so many sessions together, she recognized that speaking to him was like speaking to her reflection in a mirror, only better. Her reflection only listened. Dr. Burke often guided her to alter her perception of something so that it wasn't as destructive. She longed for that kind of direction now, but feared that it would be too little, too late.

He'd closed the door behind him, and the quiet silence that surrounded them reminded her of his office. It was intimate; cozy. The kind of quiet that encouraged a discussion; fostered dialogue.

The only sound she heard now was the intermittent whoosh of blood rushing past her ears: a slow cadence that announced one more pump of her heart had occurred.

One less until it stopped altogether.

It was late afternoon, judging by the long shadows on her walls and the golden glow that penetrated the small window of her room. Her lights were off, as they had been since she'd first awakened after the surgery. The nurses taking such efficient care of her would flip them on at night, but as soon as they were finished with whatever task they needed, she always asked that they turn them off again. Some gave her a look of pity, but most didn't seem to register her request as anything more than a desire to sleep.

"How are you?" His large brown eyes were the same as always: curious, empathetic. No trace of pity that she could detect.

"Fine. I'm fine." It was her rote answer, and often was enough to satisfy those who really didn't want to know.

He was not one of them.

"Your family and friends are worried about you."

"Is that why you're here?" There was more of a snap to her words than she'd expected. His words would have annoyed her—maybe even angered her if he'd been seeing her three days ago. Before she'd been pulverized. They couldn't have any kind of power over her now—she wouldn't allow it. Emotions were a complication she no longer deigned to acknowledge.

"No, Kate. I'm here because _I_ care about you. You've been through some incredibly stressful events, and I thought you might like to talk about them with me."

She looked down at her hands, which were clutching her sheets. "I—I guess so."

He shifted slightly in the chair, reclining into a more relaxed posture. She would have missed the subtle movement if she's been looking at his face, but her peripheral vision caught it as she stared at her palms. Had he been tense because he thought she'd refuse him? Or was it simply a matter of settling down for a long talk? He gave her little time to consider the issue, launching into conversation right away.

"Great. Let's start with easy questions. When do you get to leave the hospital?"

"Tomorrow, if I can drink enough to keep them happy and if my incision looks ok."

"Are you nauseous?"

She shook her head. "No, not really. I just—just don't feel like drinking much. It's easier now that they brought me a pitcher," she pointed to the bedside table with its surface sporting several Styrofoam cups and a pink colored plastic pitcher that appeared to be holding ice water. "I know how much I need to drink, and it has markings on it."

"Sounds like you have it under control."

She slammed her eyes closed, body stiff. Very little was under her control, and it was taking its toll on her.

She had plans to take back control.

"What will you do after you're released?"

"I'm going to my dad's cabin." She didn't look up, but heard his soft exhale. Not what he wanted to hear. One more person she'd managed to disappoint. The line was growing steadily longer.

"Who else will be there? Your dad?"

She shook her head, mute. He was silent for longer than she expected; opening her eyes, she saw he was regarding her steadily, without judgement. A look she could hold onto; trust.

"Do you think being alone is what you need right now?"

"Have you ever spent much time out of the city? Away from the bright lights and hordes of people?"

If he was surprised by her non-answer, he hid it well. "No. Not really. My family lived here and we had even more relations that lived in Philly, so most of our vacations were spent somewhere with them."

She peered off into the distance of the room, lost in memories both near and far. "I've been going to that cabin since I was a kid. With my parents. Loved the freedom it represented when I was young. I could go outside, run amongst the trees, and make friends with the chipmunks and squirrels. Nothing like living in the city. In the sunlit day it was a magical place, but it really came alive at night. The sky up there is so dark; the stars so vivid. It really makes you appreciate why, in the days before electricity, that the night sky was considered to be so important. We shut it out now, with our twenty four hour artificiality. But up there, in the mountains…it's an incredible sight."

She paused, looked shyly at him to see his reaction, but she needn't have bothered. He was listening, as always. Her private confessional. Looking away again, she continued.

"When I became a teen, I hated going up there. I wanted to spend time with my friends, not in the middle of nowhere. I forgot about the magic of the place, and the enchantment of the night sky. Then, with my mom's murder and my dad's drowning descent in to drink, I never went back. Until after my shooting. And it was during my weeks up there, recovering, that I finally understood the power of those sparkling stars in the sky. The secret that they wield."

She was quiet for a few seconds, recalling the nights spent lying on a blanket or sitting in a chair, the dark velvet cast before her. Watching the myriad points of light twinkling down.

"What secret is that, Kate?" his deep voice asked softly. Neither wanted to break the spell she'd painted.

She swallowed, hoping he'd understand what was about to hear. Hoping that she could explain it properly.

"Those stars shine down, giving their light over the course of eons. They are incredibly important to us: the sun gives us life. They guide us, and have for centuries. But nothing that happens here, on Earth, has any impact on them. There are wars fought, empires rise and fall, technology advances. Yet, none of it affects any of them. A person can be born, live and die and have no imprint of any kind upon a star."

She looked back at the therapist, capturing his gaze and holding it. "That's what I want to learn. The secret to be isolated from the world. No more hurt, no more pain. I want to learn how to live without the suffering."

He shifted in his chair, the plastic creaking in a squeal that echoed within her brain. He grimaced at the sound, and she almost smiled at his discomfiture. He so rarely betrayed his feelings in front of her.

"Kate, there is no question you've been through tremendous loss—not only in the past weeks, but in your life. I think it's a common reaction to want to shut yourself off, emotionally speaking, in the face of such tragedy. But do you really believe that the answer is to shut it all down? Ignoring your emotions isn't a coping mechanism, Kate. It's just burying the problem."

She couldn't hold his gaze any longer, and stared down at her hands instead. "I'm not sure I'm strong enough to deal with them. I just don't want to feel anymore. Why is that so wrong?"

"If you wall yourself off again, you'll lose all the capacity for joy as well as for hurt. Life has its ups and downs. I can help you if you'd let me, and I'm sure your friends and your father would be at your side if you let them."

Her head shook, almost violently. "No, no they can't see me like this. I'm too broken. No one should have to be around me right now."

"Is that your choice or theirs?"

"Mine. They think they know me, but the Kate Beckett they know is a woman who's confident and bold. Someone who wouldn't be cowering in a hospital bed. So crushed. So defective. I can't let them see…can't let them see the real me."

"What do you think would happen?"

"They'd realize what a mess I was. And they'd…they'd pity me. I can't stand pity."

"What if they're just worried about you? They want to help you."

She shook her head wordlessly once more. "I can't…I can't. Everyone I've ever loved has been hurt in some way, or left me. My mother. My father. Roy. Ri…" she swallowed, hard. Tears had begun spilling over the rims of eyelids no longer capable of holding them back. "Rick. I'm doing them all a favor, really. I'm a mess not worth cleaning up."

Suddenly Dr. Burke stood up, the grate of the chair being pushed back on the battered linoleum floor filling the room. He was leaving, too. She bent her head and willed herself not to sob out loud. She had no one left.

The mattress tilted slightly to one side, startling her. She glanced over and saw a large hand reaching for hers. Dr. Burke had knelt next to her bed. She gasped, and a soft, warm glow traveled from where his hand was touching hers, up her arm and towards her heart.

"Kate Beckett," he rumbled, his low voice vibrating the vaulted door to her heart open a crack. "You are an incredible person. Over the last few months, as I've had the pleasure of getting to know you, I can honestly say that I've come to marvel at your spirit and to celebrate your determination. You have a lot to offer: anyone would be lucky to count you as a friend. You need to give them the chance to show you how they feel. Cutting them off is not the answer."

She turned into his embrace and sobbed against his shoulder. "It just hurts so much," she murmured, shame and anger battling with her almost desperate need to feel a connection with someone.

He let her go and sat back on his heels after she'd cried herself out. "I know it hurts, but walling everyone out isn't the answer. Letting yourself feel the grief; crying it out is a part of the healing process. Do you feel any better?"

A shy nod was his only answer.

He stood again, searching for the chair he'd abandoned to hold her. Kate's swollen eyes glanced around the room, which was filled with angular shadows as dusk approached. They reminded her of tombstones surrounding her grave.

"Do you mind if I turn on the lights?"

"No, but only one or two," she whispered.

He gave her a sharp glance once more, but then moved to the wall plate with the switches and flipped two of them up. To her relief, the soft glow of the can lights over the door and along the far wall was the only illumination that was seen. She'd been nervous he'd choose the huge fluorescent lights over her bed, which she hated. She felt too naked and exposed under their glare.

Dr. Burke returned to his chair, sliding it forward to be a bit closer to her before settling back down.

"Why don't you want more lights on?"

She frowned, twisting the sheet beneath her hands without realizing it. "I prefer the dark. I used to think that it hid too much. That only the light drove away that which obscured the truth. But now I know that the dark is the truth. I don't need light."

Dr. Burke leaned forward slightly, brow furrowed. "I don't understand. Can you elaborate?"

She flushed and leaned forward so her hair cascaded around her face, hidden for the moment. Her voice, when she spoke, was muted.

"After my mom died; after my dad deserted me…I—I thought I'd hit rock bottom. It was like being in a pit. I could look up and see light far above me, but it seemed so far away. I couldn't climb out, not by myself. It was such a dark place; it scared me. Throwing myself into the work, trying to solve my mom's case, going round and round with no direction. _Nothing_ helped. It wasn't until Roy Montgomery leaned down and offered me his hand that I was able to get out. It still felt like I had one foot stuck inside…until Castle came along. He pulled me the rest of the way out—out of that hole. I was back fully in the light for the first time in years."

She rocked back and forth a few times, arms crossed and clutched to her sides, as if she could hold herself together. It was a foolish thought: she'd come apart at the seams days ago.

"After…"

Her voice cracked and she fell silent again. She sniffed, the sound heavy with the tears that no one could see underneath the curtain of hair that obscured her face from the world.

"After everything that's happened these last few weeks…these last few days…I—I know now that I was never close to the bottom, before. The bottom of the pit. I was on a ledge. I could still see a way out. Wanted out, wanted into the light again."

Suddenly she snapped her head back and pinned Burke to his seat with a glare. Tears continued to fall unchecked from her eyes, but her intense stare arrested him in his seat.

"Now, I know. Now, I _know_."

"Know what, Kate?" His tone was soft, gentle. A stark contrast to her stiffness and tension.

"What's down there."

He cocked his head to one side. "What's down there?"

"Yes! Down there. I know that I'm at the bottom, now. I know that there _is_ no light. It's just an artificial construct made up by people who're happy. That's what hides the truth. The reality of it all lies in the dark. Deep down in the pit. That's where I am. Where I deserve to be. The absence of everything."

"Deserve to be?" Dr. Burke was starting to sound like an echo. She wondered what that meant, as he'd never been at a loss for words before.

"Yes, where I deserve to be. I have no need for light. I've accepted my place—even grown comfortable with it. So, I prefer the dark."

"The dark." He shook his head, a dog flinging water off of its neck. Refocusing on her, he leaned forward again. "Kate, why do you feel you deserve to be so deep in the pit?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me. Tell me."

She curled into as small a space as possible. Tears still slid down her skin, over her cheeks and splashing noiselessly on the sheet below.

"Everyone I touch, everyone I've ever cared for have been taken from me. I'm toxic to others. My mother is dead. My father didn't care enough about me to stay sober. Every relationship I've had could be described, at best, as temporary. The man I—the man I—love—has given up and found comfort with a woman who, unlike me, is 'fun' and 'uncomplicated.'"

She stuttered to a halt, feeling a lump the size of her revolver sitting in her neck.

"The—the—the baby I conceived. The one night I got with _him_ , we're given a baby as a—as a result of our love for each other. But—but—but I didn't even… _know_. I had no _idea_ I was pregnant. And I'm so screwed up, so damaged that I can't even do what millions of other women do. Instead of being safe and snug in my uterus, my baby got stuck in a place where I couldn't nurture her. She never had a chance."

She was sobbing now, gasping out sentences between keening moans. Still rocking back and forth, her own arms hugging her in place of allowing others to comfort her. Not that there was any other besides Burke to offer a hug.

"Kate," he started. But she was beyond listening to him, caught up in the misery that she relived every single waking hour.

"I can't even carry a baby. It's probably a good thing: I'd surely be a terrible mother. I can't do anything else right, why should that be different? But there was never a question. My baby was gone before I ever knew she was there."

She took a great gasp of air, trying to calm down. But the words wouldn't stop now that she's peeled the lid back on the box they were shoved into. They came pouring out, and there was nothing to do but let them.

"I didn't think I wanted a baby, not right now. Not with my life so messed up. But when Lanie told me, I just started thinking about what a miracle it all was. Against the odds. And I could picture this little girl with curly hair and big blue eyes. She was clear to me, as clear as a photo. I think it was my baby that I saw. Who she would have been. I had this hope, this joy in my heart when I heard the news. But then," she choked, hands clutched over her heart as she tried to say the words. "Then Lanie had to tell me I _was_ pregnant. Past tense."

Burke had produced a tissue from somewhere and handed it to her. She wiped at her eyes, but the small square of paper had no chance of drying her face.

"I hurt everyone I touch. Everyone. And I can't help but think about my baby and wonder…wonder if…do you…do you think she felt pain? As she outgrew the tiny space that was all I had for her, do you think she hurt when it all suddenly exploded? Did she feel it like I did?"

Burke shook his head. "No, Kate, I don't think so. She was too small. I don't think she felt anything."

"But you don't know, do you? No one knows for sure. Maybe she was as terrified as I was. I didn't know what was happening. But now I know that I've failed at everything I've been given. Finding justice for my mom. My relationship. My baby. I just want it all this pain to go away. Don't you see, I can't be around other people. I hurt them all."

Burke's eyes, distracted by the sight of her fingers worrying the tissue he'd given her into shreds, snapped back to hers. "Kate, this wasn't your fault. Nothing about this was your fault. Do you understand that?"

Unmoving, she stared past him. It had to be her fault. Something she'd done wrong, or something she hadn't done. Everyone who touched her life regretted it, at some point. Her baby was no exception.

Her therapist's gentle rumble brought her back to the present. "Kate, I've asked you this before, but I feel like I need to ask you again in light of all that's happened. Do you have a plan to kill yourself?"

She swiped at her face with the torn tissue, smearing tears but doing little else before she answered.

"No. No, I wouldn't do that."

Burke sat back, relief stark on his face.

It was the first time she'd ever lied to her therapist.


	10. Chapter 10

**Well, I've had an interesting few days. I am safe, but really don't care to repeat some of what I went through. Then, to top off everything, I couldn't access any Wi-Fi until this evening and I have either 1G or 3G service, depending on where I stand. Definitely not in the comfort of modern civilization. So, deepest apologies for the delay in posting. Also, I think I'm behind on answering reviews and it's unclear if I'll be able to do so tomorrow. Know that I appreciate anything you send.**

* * *

The clicking sound of a keyboard being industriously used filled the air. The letter was almost done, but the soft mutters and occasional curses as it was typed demonstrated its importance to the author.

… _And, finally, as I say goodbye, I'd like to thank everyone from the bottom of my heart. It's been a true pleasure knowing you all. I felt at times as if we'd become a family. This is not a decision I've arrived at easily, but I feel it's absolutely necessary. It's not anyone's fault that things worked out as they did, so please don't look to assign blame. Thank you._

It seemed impersonal to type it up and email it—handwritten notes were certainly more touching and more…human. However, the convenience of being able to email it to everyone involved was worth the small cost of a more formal address.

Sitting back, muscles groaning in protest, he noticed the time. Almost 4 a.m. He'd been up nearly all night. Exhausted, he stood, stretching for a few seconds before shuffling from his office the few steps into his room.

He collapsed on the bed, intending to sleep for as long as possible. Despite the late—or very early—hour, he felt like he'd done the right thing. Now he just had to convince his heart of that fact.

* * *

The pounding in his head wouldn't stop. One moment he was dreaming that he was in a colorful meadow chasing after a beautiful woman, who from the back looked suspiciously like Beckett, and in the next instant he was pounding a nail into a wooden box.

Was that a coffin?

He sat up with a gasp, heart hammering as loud as the pounding had been in his dream. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. He felt dirty and grimy—scruffy beard and skin damp from perspiration.

Looking over at the soft glow of the alarm clock, he moaned out loud. It'd only been two and a half hours since he'd fallen into bed. Not enough sleep by half. He was about to untangle the top sheet that had wrapped around him like a determined boa constrictor when the pounding started again.

Someone was at the door.

"Coming, I'm coming," he griped as he extricated himself from the bed. "This better be good," he shouted as the pounding resumed after a brief pause. He stumbled to the door and threw it open without bothering to look and see who the culprit was.

"Finally," his mother huffed, breezing past him in a cloud of perfume and alcohol. "I was knocking forever, Richard. Really."

Rick stood, openly staring in speechless disbelief before shutting the door and watching as his mother made her way to the nearest couch and toppled onto it.

"I'm so sorry, Mother. I suppose I thought you'd, oh, I don't know, maybe use your _keys_ ," he snapped as he slowly trailed back into the main living area of the loft.

"Oh, darling, I misplaced mine again. No idea where they are. Say, be a good son and cut me a few slices of cucumber for my eyes, will you?"

He snorted, muttering to himself as he turned to enter the kitchen. Arguing just wasn't worth the breath.

"You're awfully churlish this morning. Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?"

"Any side is the wrong side at this time of morning."

"It's not _that_ early darling. What's wrong?"

He opened the refrigerator, stalling as he looked through the produce drawer. When he dragged the cucumber out and turned to cut it up on the island he saw his mother was sitting up, expectantly watching him. Grabbing a knife, he chopped down with a little more force than was necessary. His mother clucked.

"Richard, you can tell me now or after you've killed that poor cucumber, but something is obviously bothering you."

He paused, bowed his head down and took a deep breath before looking up at her. "I was up pretty late, writing."

"You're always up late writing. What was different about this?"

"I wrote a letter of resignation to the mayor and to the NYPD. I'm done with it all, the shadowing. Everything."

Martha caught her breath audibly, hands clutching her chest. "Are you sure, darling? You could go to another precinct, find another detective to follow…"

"No, I'm done. The time I spent with Slaughter was an absolute disaster. He nearly got me killed. And I can't go back to the Twelfth, so it's better that I just cut all the ties now."

"Did you ever talk to Detective Beckett?"

His lips twisted bitterly. "No. I broke down and called her, left a voicemail. That was three days ago, and nothing. I've tried to get in touch with the boys, even Lanie. All I got for my effort was a lousy text from Kevin saying they were 'too busy helping Kate' and that we'd 'talk when things were better.' Well, obviously that'll never happen. Everyone seems to be avoiding me. Just as well, it can be a clean break."

"It's just very odd, isn't it? You've not spoken to any of them? I wonder what's going on?"

"Yeah, well, they clearly want nothing more to do with me," he walked over to the couch, carrying two slices of cucumber and offering them to her. "I can take a hint. I won't stay where I'm not wanted. It's their loss, though I will miss solving cases. It's just not the same without…without…"

"Without Katherine," his mother finished. He wanted to protest, but it was the truth. Without Beckett and the team they'd formed, it just wasn't the same. There was no way to recapture that magic with someone else—the essential element was _her_ , not the work.

He sank down across from her, needing to talk. His mother had served as his sounding board his whole life. Maybe she could help him make sense out of this mess.

"You told me not long ago that love wasn't a switch. I wanted to just stop loving her, but you were right. I think I need a clean break. Move on with my life. Maybe I'll take a vacation, go somewhere after Alexis graduates."

"That sounds good in theory, Richard, but I still think you need to talk to her." He grimaced, not pleased at the prospect. "I know, I know, your feelings have been hurt. But, darling, after spending so much time with her, don't you think she deserves an explanation?"

His nostrils flared as he suppressed the urge to respond the way he wanted to: with virtuous anger and cutting sarcasm. He knew, in his heart, that his mother had a point. He was just so tired of always doing the right thing.

"It's not like I haven't tried. No one will talk to me, or tell me what's going on."

"Did you go by her apartment?"

He shook his head.

"I know you, Richard. This will eat you alive unless you have some closure. Make this break, but do it the right way."

He sighed and closed his eyes, head thrown back against the cushion. "You're right. I'll try and call her again this…"

The sudden pounding on his door startled them both.

"Good heavens, who could that be? And at this time of the day?"

He gave her a pointed look as he stood to go answer it.

"Well, you know it's not me, this time. And Alexis would never lose her keys."

This time he checked the peephole before opening the door. As soon as he saw who it was, his heart gave a lurch and he let his head fall with a muffled thump onto the wooden door. Of all the people who might be pounding on his door this early in the morning, she was…well, she was not high on the list. She did _not_ look happy.

"Richard, who is it?"

He groaned out loud and considered rappelling out of a window. How hard could it be? Suddenly, his head started bouncing off the door as she resumed her pounding. Just what he needed to face her: a concussion.

"Are you going to answer that?"

He turned part way and glared at his mother, rubbing his forehead to make the throbbing pain recede. Since most of the pain was due to the presence of the person on the other side of the door, it was a fruitless endeavor.

Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob and swung it open. He stood, holding it tight so that her way in was barred by his body. He'd set his face in an impassive mask. Not a welcoming sight. Not that he wanted to be.

"Castle," she cried. He'd never heard that tone in her voice before, and his mask almost slipped. She looked disheveled. Dishabille had never been a word he would have ascribed to her, until today. It was discombobulating, and he didn't like that he was immediately put on the defensive.

"What do you want?" His words were harsh, a weapon launched at her. They hit their target as she flinched under his withering gaze.

"We need to talk."

"I've called you, texted you. You've not answered. Now you want to talk? You don't have anything I want to hear."

His mother gasped behind him, barely audible at the distance. Good manners had gone out the window weeks ago. He didn't care how he sounded now.

She'd been crying: he could see the tracks still on her face. She was a strong woman—whatever it was that she was here about had to be a grave situation, to upset her so much. His defiant words only served to make her angry, and her right index finger was suddenly thrust in his face.

"Now you listen here, Richard Castle. You're gonna let me in and we _are_ gonna talk. The hallway is no place for this discussion, so move outta my way."

"Fine," he huffed, standing aside. She strode past, a curious mixture of fear and anger crossing her face as he watched her stalk past him.

He watched as she greeted his mother, who showed no signs of leaving them alone. He was fine with her remaining—none of this part of his life seemed to be a secret from her anyway.

After she'd settled on a chair next to the couch where Martha reclined, he sank down into his previous seat.

"What do you want, Lanie?" He asked again, when she spent far too long silently staring at her shoes. He saw she was struggling to speak—a woman who'd never been quieted in her life. A cold grip twisted his guts like a rope.

"I'm here about Kate," she finally explained. He almost stood and walked away, but a quelling glance from his mother kept him pinned in place.

"I don't want to talk about Kate. Next topic."

Lanie looked up, eyes beseeching. "You're the only one, Castle. The only one who can reach her. You're the last hope. Please. Don't make me beg you."

"She's made it clear that she wants nothing to do with me. So why should I even bother?"

"Because no one else can. If you care about her at all…"

"Care about her? _Care_ about her? I lo—I care about her. Cared. She doesn't feel the same way, and my hanging around makes everyone uncomfortable. Well, I can take a hint. I'm done. No more."

Lanie's slackened mouth and mute glare was his only response.

"What? Why are you staring at me like that? It's not like this is news—no one's been taking my calls. I've tried Kate, tried you. Even the boys. Kevin's the only one to bother replying, but it was just some meaningless platitudes. I'm just a laughingstock to you all, I guess. Well, I'm done. I don't want anything more to do with you all."

He stood, ready to walk away. His heart was hammering in his chest and he felt his hands shaking. He hated what this situation did to him—what _she_ did to him. He wanted to hit something, just take his frustration out in a physical explosion, but had to keep a lid on the simmering anger that overtook him whenever he started thinking about the last few days.

Lanie had stood when he had. She didn't look mad—more like confused—but it was clear that she was going to continue the conversation whether he wanted to or not.

"You've tried to call me? I know…"

"Don't try to pretend you didn't get my messages. I'm sure between the four of you that you all knew that I wanted to talk to you."

"I wasn't…Castle, do you have any idea what's been going on for the last few days?"

"No! I just said I've been trying to get in touch with you. Aren't you listening to me? This is just so typical," he muttered, running one hand through his hair. "Why is it I'm only good enough to be a part of the team when you guys need something from me? I'm so sick of it all," he huffed.

"Richard!"

"It's the truth, Mother. No one seems to want to address what's really going on, but I'm not gonna just smile and let it slide over me anymore." He was breathing hard and could feel how heated his whole body had become. Lanie was eyeing him as if he were a complete stranger. Well, good. It was time they all figured out that he was no pushover.

"So, you just think that because we didn't get back to you right away, that we're all sitting around the precinct laughing at you? You never figured there _might_ be something else going on, hmm?" It was Lanie's turn to look flushed. She was a little scary looking when she was riled up, he'd be the first to admit. But he wasn't going to back down.

"Just what could be so important that no one could do more than text me for days?"

"I'm here now, aren't I?" Her voice rose to near a shout. There was no doubt she was not happy with him. "You wanna know what I've been up to? What the boys've been up to? Well, we were sitting in Kate's hospital room, that's where we've been. Praying she'd survive after Javi and I found her near dead in her bathroom."

Rick felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. His legs couldn't support him, and he dropped in a heap. Luckily, the chair was still beneath him. Lanie stood towering over him now, an avenging angel bringing the truth to bear as her eyes flashed at him and her chest heaved with indignation.

"The hospital? My goodness, what happened?" Martha asked what he couldn't. He couldn't even speak. There was no air left in his lungs.

Lanie glared at him for a moment, and then lowered herself to a seated position again. Her voice was gentler, though she enunciated each word very clearly. "Yes, the hospital. She was pregnant, though she didn't know it. The embryo implanted in her tube and it ruptured. She nearly bled to death."

Rick's eyes slammed down at the news she'd been pregnant. If he'd felt breathless before, now he felt as if he were being sucked into a vacuum. He'd truly been a fool to think she was waiting for him. How he'd misinterpreted her words on the swings so badly was a real mystery, but it was obvious he had. He clenched his jaw as a surge of jealousy flooded his body. She chose men to let into her life, while continuing to reject him. He couldn't keep living like this.

Lanie had fallen silent. When he opened his eyes again, she was looking at him with an almost sorrowful expression, which he found puzzling. His mother was pale, tears sliding down her cheeks as she gazed at him. Everyone looked to him, and he found his ire building again.

"Is she ok?" He would never wish harm on her, no matter how strained their relationship became.

"Physically, yes. She had to have emergency surgery, but once they got the bleeding stopped she recovered relatively quickly. It's her mental state we're all worried about. I've never seen her so devastated, and you and I both know she doesn't deal well with losses, especially as personal as this one."

"So, what is it exactly that you want from me?"

His mother tsked at him again, but he was done with all the polite avoidance of the issues that mattered. Lanie, at least, wouldn't back down from a challenge.

"I told you when I came in, we need your help reaching her," she retorted, eyes narrowed.

"I've no idea where she is. I didn't even know she was in the hospital."

"Not getting in touch with her, Castle. I mean reaching out to her and getting her to talk. I've never seen her like this. Even her therapist is worried."

Rick jerked and he eyed Lanie in confusion. "She was seeing a therapist?"

Lanie sighed, but answered. "Yes. For months. Started after her shooting. He went to see her in the hospital, and was worried about her state of mind. He thinks she might be suicidal, even though she denies it, so he started her on some medication and discussed it with Jim. They think she might need to be involuntarily committed, at least for a while. She's supposed to stay on the surgical ward until later this morning, but I'm terrified of what she's got circling around in that brain of hers. I think you're the only one who has a chance of reaching her before we're forced to do something drastic."

"Well, I feel terrible for her, but why are you asking me for help? She thinks I'm little more than a troublesome partner. If you're that worried, why don't you talk to the father of the baby? She'd probably listen to him."

Lanie's foot started tapping and she drew a few deep breaths before answering. "Oh, you think that, do you? I swear to God, Richard Castle, that when all this is over you two are going to owe me so much that _giving_ me a Ferrari won't even begin to cover it. I should write my own damn book. Or go into business. If I can get the two of you on the same page, then the rest of the world will be a cake walk. I'd be rich in no time."

Rick felt his cheeks growing hotter and hotter as he clamped down on his tongue. Let her say her piece—there was no point in arguing with her. Then, he'd escort her out and that would be it. He had little to no influence on Kate Beckett, despite what Lanie thought.

"So your advice is to go to the man who got her pregnant and make him get involved? Get him to go talk to her?"

"If she told you who it was, well then, yes. Sounds like he'd have a better chance of talking to her than anyone else would."

"Oh, I _know_ what man she's been involved with. Same man she's been pining for…for months now. Maybe years."

Rick's gut twisted again and he felt sick. Lanie was still staring him down, as if they both had a secret that no one else knew. Problem was he had no idea _what_ it was.

"So, they're involved? They must be if she got pregnant."

"She wanted to be with him, but for some reason he suddenly started acting uninterested. Started showing up with other women around her. Acting cold and as if he wanted nothing to do with her."

On the couch, Martha suddenly straightened up, a piercing look thrown at Lanie that the other woman nodded at. They both then turned to him and he had the distinct feeling that he was a bug about to be skewered. He was as lost as he'd been at the beginning of the conversation, unfortunately.

"Well, the guy sounds like a real jerk, if you ask me. But I still think he'd have a better shot at talking to her than anyone else. They had an intimate relationship, and it sounds like she loves him. You need to go speak to him."

Lanie nodded. "You're right. Kate does love him, even though he's acted like an asshole towards her recently. And I'm pretty sure he loves her, too."

Martha interrupted, startling Rick as she'd been quiet nearly the entire time. "Oh, he does. He still loves her deeply."

Rick turned and looked at his mother, head shaking slightly. What did she know about this man?

"Well, that's good. We were beginning to wonder with the way he's acted recently."

Rick glanced back at Lanie. She was still staring at him expectantly. "Well, aren't you going to go find him?"

"I don't need to go find him, Castle. I'm sitting right in front of him."


	11. Chapter 11

The headlights cut through the pre-dawn gloom as she swung the car onto the long dirt road that led to the cabin. She was exhausted, far more than the 330 mile trip typically wrung out of her.

Thankfully, she'd left the bike at home. It didn't suit her purposes, and now she wasn't sure she could have kept it on the road for the six plus hours she'd taken. Though, perhaps that would have saved her from the next needed actions.

As she bumped down the winding trail toward the lake, the sky to the east was just beginning to lighten to a softer gray. Cutting the engine, she sat in the inky dark that still surrounded the cabin. Her whole body hurt, a sharp pain from her lower abdomen coupled with the overall ache of muscles tensed over a steering wheel for far too many hours.

Still, pain was a temporary thing—something that would soon be banished forever. She'd endure, until she no longer needed to. She glanced up at the night sky above, stars still staring down from the firmament far above. They didn't care what path she chose. No judgement, no exhortation to reconsider. She didn't matter in the eyes of the universe. No use pretending otherwise.

Retrieving her cell phone and activating its flashlight app, she creaked and groaned her way out of the car. Now would be a good time to take one of the pain pills that waited patiently in her purse.

She resisted the urge. They would be needed later.

She limped to the front porch, unlocking the door with her key. It was chilly in the night air—the temperature up here was always lower than downstate, and winter held its grip much later, even when the calendar indicated spring. She shivered, wishing she'd worn a heavier coat, but she'd been cold for weeks now. Nothing seemed to warm her anymore.

No lights were needed once she gained entry—the cabin's floorplan as familiar to her as her own apartment. The bed was calling to her after the long drive up. She'd driven the Thruway, staying on as it changed to the Northway until her exit at Pottersville. The final two hours of the drive was nearly all two lane road through the mountains to Cranberry Lake. It was usually a fun drive on the motorcycle.

It'd been torture with a body already wracked by grief, guilt, and gloom.

But, she was here. She'd coaxed and cajoled an early discharge from the hospital: her attending surgeon had planned to keep her one more night, but she'd become suspicious that there might be more than simple monitoring in the works.

She'd waited until the night intern was working, and fortuitously quite busy before she requested discharge. Distracted, the intern had initially denied her request. She'd upped the ante by telling her nurse she'd leave AMA and that had done the trick. They'd discharged her around 10pm. Granted, she'd had to acquiesce to all kinds of advice, all of which she'd promptly ignored the moment she walked out the front door and climbed into a taxi to escape back to her apartment.

No one, not even her father, knew she'd been released. They all assumed she was being discharged in the morning—this morning. It was a key to her plans, as if any of them had been present at the time she left the hospital, she had a feeling that she'd have been hosting babysitters for days on end. None of them trusted her. Not even Dr. Burke.

He'd prescribed some anti-depressants after his visit. Pills that she'd pretended to swallow then spit out after the nurse had left. None of it was necessary: not the babysitters, not the pills. She had her own plans, and interference wouldn't be tolerated.

After she'd packed a bag at her apartment, she'd sunk gingerly into the car and set out. She'd stopped near Albany to buy the items she'd need. Many hours of planning had gone into this step. She'd had little to do but scheme while held hostage in the hospital. Her final act would not be some poorly considered, sloppily executed plan. She'd considered and rejected several methods: nothing too traumatic or…difficult…to clean up when she was found would be used.

Therefore, her gun was out of the question. It was a cliché, anyway. Plus, she personally knew of a cop who'd botched it up. He now he existed in a nursing home. _Her_ last act would be irrevocable.

Pills alone were much too uncertain, though the temptation of just falling asleep couldn't be denied. She didn't think she could face drowning in the lake. The feeling of suffocation was not appealing, and the prospect of some poor fisherman finding her bloated, water-logged body days later was unthinkable. She'd seen enough corpses fished out of water to know it wasn't a sight that left you in peace. Plus, she still had nightmares about being trapped in her seat as she and Castle had sunk in the river during the linchpin case. Not an experience that she wanted to repeat.

She'd rejected hanging for the same reason as drowning. Fighting for her last breath seemed like a horrible way to exit the world. In the end, she'd decided that her car would be an opportune setting. She could take her pills and run a hose from the tailpipe. Just to add the extra insurance that she accomplished the task. It seemed like the perfect method.

Yet, with the moment at hand, she was hesitant. She was so tired and in so much pain. It didn't make sense, since her goal was to leave all of that behind, but she didn't want to consciously decide to kill herself while in such discomfort. No one knew where she was, or what she was planning. There was no rush.

With a sigh, she shuffled to her old bedroom. Her bed welcomed her like the old friend it was, and she curled up on its cool sheets with a sob of relief. Covered by the quilt her grandmother had made her when she was a little girl, she closed her eyes and dreamt of her baby and the life they'd missed having together.

Dying would have to wait a few hours.

* * *

The drone of the rental car's tires whirring on the asphalt was distracting. It was a song that sang that he'd not yet arrived. That he was still not with _her_ , and was running out of time. Though running towards her was all he'd been doing, since Lanie's visit early that morning.

It'd taken several seconds to understand what the medical examiner was telling him. That _he,_ Richard Castle, was the father of the baby that had nearly killed Kate. When her meaning had finally sunk in, he'd started laughing. Even he had heard the hysteria creeping in.

"I don't see what's so funny about any of this, Castle," Lanie had spit at him. The joke was on her, though he didn't really find it amusing, either.

"You're barking up the wrong tree here, Lanie," he'd replied. "I'm not the father of any baby. Certainly not Kate Beckett's. I don't know what you're trying to do here, but you're sadly mistaken if you think I'd fall for that pile of bullshit."

Lanie's face had burned red, while her eyes turned ice cold. It was a fascinating contrast, though not one he wanted directed at him.

Ever.

"Castle, do you honestly think I'd be wasting my time feeding you a line at _this_ time of the morning? About something as serious as this? I'm _telling_ you that my best friend is depressed, probably suicidal, and you think I'd be traipsing over Manhattan at dawn pounding on your door just to sit and make up wild stories? Are you out of your goddamned mind?" She'd smacked the side of the chair as she'd finished talking, and he wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd jumped. Just a little. Angry Lanie was not a trivial matter.

Even when she was chasing the wrong man.

He'd returned her glare with one of his own. Though he might still love—care—about Beckett, he wasn't the man Lanie was looking for. She'd been wasting her time and his. "I'm not the father. I can't be, since I've never had a relationship with her beyond our partnership at the precinct. We're only friends; that's all she's ever wanted from me."

"Is that right?" she'd whipped back, and the snap in her voice had made him flinch. "So, that's why Kate's been in therapy all these months, trying to get better so the two of you could be just friends? Why she broke up with Josh and hasn't seen anyone at all since? Why she was so upset when you pulled up to that motel with a blonde bimbo in tow? Cause it sure seemed like she wanted to be more than friends to me."

Her words had been like a sand blaster, battering away at his brick wall. Surely…it couldn't be true, could it? She'd wanted more from him? There had been the swings, those months ago. But, she'd been lying. It didn't make any sense. He'd shaken his head, and then had played his trump card. He'd been tired of the charade.

"Be that as it may, I'm not responsible for her pregnancy. She must have been seeing someone else, 'cause we've never even had sex." The thought of her carrying someone else's baby had made him sick to his stomach, but facts were facts.

"Well, that's interesting 'cause Kate told me you did."

He'd made a snorting sound at this declaration, but glares from both women had persuaded him to keep his mouth shut until Lanie finished.

"You remember finishing up the Fauxdette case? Kate said you were talking about dreams before you went home."

He'd nodded. He'd never forget her trusting him with her dream of being the first female Chief Justice, even as he'd wistfully hoped she'd mention a future that might involve the two of them. His dream.

"She said you called her later that night, talking about dreams. You were at the Old Haunt, and you'd been drinking."

His stomach had rolled as he remembered the night in question. He _had_ been drunk, and he'd known about the call. But the rest…it'd been a fantasy. Not real. Surely not real. He'd hunched his shoulders as Lanie's voice had crashed down all around him. There'd been no hiding, not from this.

"She told me she was worried about you. Wanted to make sure you were ok. So, she threw on some clothes and went to the bar. It was already closed, but you showed us all how to get in when you first bought it."

He'd been breathing hard at this point, sweat beading on his forehead. It wasn't true, he'd have remembered. Something this monumental, he'd have remembered.

"The light was on in your office, so she walked down the stairs. You were sitting at the desk, and she said something in her—the band that had kept her from confessing how she felt about you—just snapped. She went to you and the two of you made love."

"No, no, no! It was just a fantasy, it wasn't real. She wasn't real."

"She was real, Castle. How could I know this? How could she have told me? She said she put on jeans and a tee shirt, but that," Lanie had then glanced at Martha, an apologetic look on her face. Martha had just waved one hand in the air.

"Honey, please. I'm an actress. Nothing you say will surprise me, believe me."

"Well, she said that she didn't wear any underwear. Nothing."

Rick had rocked forward, head in his hands. He'd believed her. Too many details were right to not believe, but the knowledge had devastated him. He'd had no idea.

"She wasn't there," he'd rasped. "When I woke up."

"No, she told me she got called away by dispatch. Not a body, something else. You were asleep."

He'd felt like he was suffocating, as all the events after that night played through his head. "I thought she didn't want me. I didn't know."

"Well, she did. But you two have never learned to talk to each other. And while I appreciate it's a lot to take in—and a lot to regret—there's _no time_ , Castle. You've got to go to her. Convince her that she's got way too much to live for to even think about throwing it away."

He'd had no chance to process most of it. His mother and Lanie had propelled him into a taxi as soon as he'd brushed his teeth and put more than just sweat pants on. He'd been at the front door of her hospital by 8 a.m., so nervous that he'd paced in front of the lobby practicing his speech, before heading to the elevator to find the room number Lanie had given him.

The room had been empty, and the bare, plastic mattress seemed to mock his attempt to get to her in time. His heart had sunk to his toes when a passing nurse had explained that she'd been discharged the night before. He'd made a frantic call to Lanie, who'd sent the boys to Kate's apartment and made her own panicked calls while he'd made his way back to the loft.

No one had found her by the time he'd returned. Her father hadn't even known she'd been discharged, and her place was empty, her car missing. While she could've been anywhere, they'd all had the same idea: the cabin.

It'd not been a comforting thought. She'd had hours on them, and her phone was off, making GPS tracking impossible.

Jim had provided directions, but it was a long drive. Especially considering her state of mind. Rick had wanted to throw up every time he thought of her alone and hurting so badly. They'd made such a mess of things, both of them.

Lake Placid had an airport, though there weren't any commercial flights from New York. Luckily, Rick had the resources to bypass that limitation, and a private air company had been more than willing to fly him up.

With promises to call as soon as he'd found her, he'd sped to the airport, heart beating wildly and stomach churning as he kept imagining what he'd encounter if he were too late.

The flight had been terrible. Not due to any weather or pilot issue—it had been a smooth and professional job. So smooth, that he'd spent the hour lost in an endless parade of rebukes and recrimination. How had they arrived at this point? There'd been so many opportunities to straighten it all out, but they'd both been so afraid of rejection that they'd never met even half way to just…talk to each other.

Lanie'd told him that Kate loved him. It was a concept he'd had trouble believing, even after all he'd learned. But the rational, mature side of his brain had admonished his negative thinking. This had been how they'd ended up so far apart. He had to stop assuming he knew what she was thinking and actually ask her. They had to learn to talk, or else this thing they had would never get off the ground. And there was nothing he wouldn't do to get another chance to make it right.

However, he knew that first, there would have to be a lot of work on Kate's part. If she were truly suicidal—and he'd shivered at the thought—she had to get help. She'd nearly died. Had lost a baby—his baby. She must have felt so alone, without anywhere to turn. He was sure she'd go to the cabin, but the tiny amount of uncertainty that lay in his guess was still enough to keep a lump in his throat and his intestines twisted into pretzels.

Now he was close to the end. Speeding as fast as he dared west on NY 3. The song of the tires made his foot heavier, as he kept hearing that he was too late. That he'd find her still, lifeless body. Worried he'd be pulled over—and thus waste valuable time—he opened his Spotify app and filled the car with Ludovico Einaudi's _Divenire._ Normally, he found it very relaxing, but today even his favorites _Primavera_ and _Andare_ whispered of tragedy and tardiness. There was no outrunning his imagination.

Fifteen minutes and a few hair-raising turns later, he saw the turn for Columbian Road. The cabin lay just over two miles from the turnoff, according to Jim. His heart was pounding and his breath came in short pants as he negotiated the sharp curves the road made as it roughly mirrored the shore.

He almost missed the dirt path that signaled the driveway, but he'd slowed down once he hit the two mile mark. Though it was still early spring, he couldn't see the cabin from the road. Couldn't see her car. He took a deep breath and resisted the urge to gun the engine. Losing control and hitting a tree would be just his luck.

Two minutes seemed like two weeks, but as he made a final turn, the cabin loomed up at him from a clearing. He exhaled sharply when he saw her car sitting in front. She was here. Or, she'd been here.

He didn't remember putting his own car into park, but sprang out as soon as he'd drawn even with her vehicle. He looked around wildly, but saw nothing moving beyond the budding trees and the swaying grass. Heard nothing but the sound of the waves lapping at the shoreline. He took a deep breath and leapt up the few stairs to the front porch. He rapped on the glass door three times, but nothing and no one stirred inside. Grasping the knob with one sweaty hand, he discovered it was unlocked.

He wasn't sure if that was a good sign…or bad.


	12. Chapter 12

**This story is dedicated in loving memory of my oldest cousin, Joe Roger F. Joe took his own life, leaving behind a devastated family looking for answers to questions we didn't even know how to ask. There is a stigma to suicide—if someone dies from cancer or a heart attack the people left behind understand there was little they could do to help them. But suicide is different. What if….? Why didn't I know? It leaves you grieving and wondering where everything went wrong. For my part, writing this story helped, in a small way. Thank you for reading it.**

* * *

The interior of the cabin was deathly quiet. No lights were on, but it was sunny enough outside that none were needed. A chill hung in the air. Wherever she was, she'd not bothered to turn on the heat.

He paused, closed his eyes and sent up a prayer. That she was ok. That he wasn't too late. That he wasn't about to open a door and find her blood spattering the walls. No matter what he found here, it was going to alter his life forever. He just hoped it would be for the better.

Eyes reopened, he peered into the half shadows cast from the windows. He was in a cozy living room, fireplace cold and dark on his right. To his left was a table for four, and past it a small kitchen. Noticing scattered packages on the table, he moved there first.

A small white paper bag held a bottle of Lortab, which he remembered from Derrick Storm research to be a powerful painkiller. Shaking hands struggled to open the bottle, but he breathed a sigh of relief when all the pills appeared to be there. Maybe Lanie was wrong. Maybe she'd just come up here to try to heal—just as she'd done after her shooting.

A receipt caught his eye, crumpled next to the bag. Picking it up, he saw it was from a Walmart just north of Albany. Only one item was listed. Brow furrowed, he shook his head. He'd no idea what she wanted with a garden hose, though perhaps she planned to stay long enough to grow some vegetables? It was time stamped for 3 a.m., so she must have driven up last night. It seemed like an odd item to buy in the middle of the night...that is, unless…

A cold sweat broke out on his skin as he contemplated just what she could do with a hose. Her car outside had been empty—he'd have noticed if she'd been in it, or if a hose was stretched to the window. There was no heat on in the cabin, so there was no use for the hose here. Unless there was another building that he'd not seen—one with machines containing combustible engines. No, he had to assume she was here and hadn't done anything yet. Assume he was jumping to the wrong conclusion, once more. He never guessed right when it came to her—a lesson he should have learned by now.

Setting it all down, he glanced around the open space again. There was an opening on the wall furthest from the front door that led to a darkened hall. Walking through, he saw that there were 4 doors, all closed, off this gloomy hallway. No light peeked under any of the doors; she could be behind any of them. Or none. Choosing the nearest, he took a deep breath and yanked it open.

Bathroom tile gleamed faintly at him. It was small, tidy, and thankfully empty. The next door down to the right revealed a tight bedroom housing a queen sized bed. If he'd had to guess, this would be the master, as there were some pictures of the Beckett family staring back at him. This room was empty as well.

Moving back to the first door left of the bathroom, he started to open it, then paused. She'd be in her bedroom, he could feel it. And this room, so close to the master and in the middle of the house wouldn't be the bedroom she'd have chosen. She'd take the last one on the hall, furthest from her parents.

He walked to the final door, legs trembling and pulse pounding. She'd be ok. She had to be ok. Grasping the door knob, he twisted it open. As his eyes adjusted to the brighter light spilling in through thin sheers draping two walls, he saw her. She was curled up under a quilt on the bed, hair spreading around her like a dark pool.

There was no blood. No obvious injury. He nearly sobbed in relief, legs threatening to collapse as he drank in the sight of her. Was she sleeping? He took a faltering step, then another. A vision of Sleeping Beauty tumbled about his brain. He was no Prince, able to kiss away the curse that coursed through her blood.

But, kissing her was suddenly all he could think of. They were meant to be: he'd arrived in time, and they'd have their happily ever after. He just had to prove his love by tasting her ruby red lips. She'd wake up, they'd finally talk, and everything would be fine.

He didn't know about the loose floorboard, of course. It squeaked a loud protest as he took his final step to the bier his princess lay upon. He winced, and hoped it wouldn't rouse her. But that proved to be a foolish wish, as her eyes flew open and the fairy tale he'd imagined turned back into a nightmare as she screamed and somehow punched him, simultaneously.

* * *

Kate was dreaming. She and Rick were walking, hand in hand, following the unsteady steps of a curly-haired toddler along a beach. She felt safe, and warm and loved. So, when the loud squeak of the loose floorboard next to her bed rent through the air, she screamed. She didn't want to leave the wonderful world of her fantasy.

The realization that someone was looming over her was almost as disturbing. She reacted purely from instinct, striking a blow at her attacker. A muffled curse was followed by a hasty retreat that she barely noticed as a fresh wave of pain erupted from her lower abdomen. Twisting in bed to hit someone was apparently not on her list of allowed activity.

Eyes shut, she clutched her wound and concentrated on riding out the swell of agony. Ever so slowly it began to fade and awareness of her surrounding grew once again.

"Beckett? Kate? Are you ok?"

A pulse of blackness swept through her. His voice. His scent. The feel of his presence. It was all too familiar. She would have preferred to be assaulted by a cabin-stalking murderer. Anyone but him.

"Kate? God, Kate, I was so worried about you."

She'd obviously slept far too long for him to be here. And now she couldn't do anything until she got rid of him. Her plan unraveling, she felt like crying. Why was it that the universe seemed to be conspiring against her in every way?

"Kate, please. Please look at me."

His voice had an odd timbre to it—a plaintive note that made it sound as if he really cared. She knew better, of course. Though, the question of exactly why he was here and what he wanted from her needed to be answered. She opened her eyes again.

He was crouching just out of arm's reach from her bed. Backlighting from the window prevented her from seeing his expression, though his voice sounded concerned. Her main thoughts were that he was going to interrupt her planned schedule. She had to get him to leave, as soon as possible.

"What are you doing here, Castle?" Her voice was flat, emotionless. Harsh.

"I came to find you. Make sure you're ok." He remained crouched down near the far wall, voice soft. Soothing.

"Well, you found me. As you can see, I'm fine. Or close enough," she grimaced as her lower abdomen protested her sitting up. She ignored it as best she could and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "You've done your duty."

He stood, towering over her in the small bedroom. Irritated with feeling so small, she stood as well. Gingerly. With no further outcries from her incision, she started for the door. She assumed he'd follow.

He did.

"Thanks for stopping by. If you leave now, you should have daylight most the way back to the City." Making her way into the living room, she was shocked to see how late in the day it was. How had she slept so long?

"I'm not leaving. Not yet. We need to talk."

She halted, head bowed. The man did nothing but talk. She felt time rushing through her fingers and she wanted to cry again. If he were here now, could others be far behind?

"Please, Kate. Talk to me. We've—I've—spent so much time not talking. Look where it's gotten us."

She nodded, accepting that he wouldn't leave without first saying what he needed to say. She sat down, slow, deliberate motion creating less protest within her aching body. He stared at her, a surprised look on his face after she'd agreed without arguing. Seating himself on the end of the couch nearest her chair, his fingers twitched towards her. She recoiled without thinking, and his hand drooped back to his side. Had he really wanted to hold her hand? Surely she'd been mistaken.

"You're probably wondering how I got here so fast?"

She was. She did.

"Lanie came to see me this morning. We all thought you were still in the hospital." She should have known. Lanie never could believe that Kate just needed to be left alone. "You need to know, Kate, I had _no_ idea. I would've come, had I known." His voice broke, but it didn't affect her. She'd rebuilt most of her walls while lying alone after surgery. He could grieve all he wanted to—she was done with hers.

A sharp nod from her seemed enough for him. If only that were all he'd come for…but she wasn't so fortunate.

"Lanie said…well, she's worried about you. Everyone is. She thought you might do something….like out of grief. She thought you might be suicidal. But you're still here. You're not going to kill yourself, are you? It can't be that bad."

She wasn't expecting that question, but her mask was firmly in place. He couldn't have read her expression, and she might have fooled him too but for one fatal error: he'd snuck his hand over hers as he spoke. Somehow, he felt it. She watched as his eyes opened wider and his grip clamped down on her hand. Her escape had just been cut off.

"You…Kate? God, Kate, not that. Not that." He turned his head away and wiped his eyes with his free hand while she watched as though from a perch high above. Nothing would get to her, not here. Not him.

Yet, despite that distance, when he swung his head back he captured her effortlessly with his gaze, steely intensity boring steadily into her walls. She was pinioned.

"Where's your gun?" he growled. She felt the bond loosen. He'd leapt to the wrong conclusion.

"Didn't bring it," she muttered back. It was the truth. It was locked up in the gun safe in her apartment, as far as she knew.

His eyes bored into hers, and she felt the band tightening again. "The pills on the table?"

"I got them from the hospital," she protested. Another truth on her side, though he didn't need to know she was saving them for later.

"You're in pain, but none are missing. Why haven't you taken any yet, Kate?"

He'd looked in the bottle? Still, she had an answer. "I was driving. And I don't like how they make me feel. I hate taking medicine, you know that." She relaxed, the chain loosening once more.

It was a trap, and she fell neatly into it.

"You wouldn't have brought them if you didn't plan on taking them. You left your gun at home, why bring pills that you weren't gonna use?"

She sat, tense and incapable of speech. If he'd seen the pills, had he seen the…

"You stopped at a Walmart. Bought a garden hose. At three in the morning. Now, what on earth do you need a garden hose for at that time of day?"

Tears welled up in her eyes as everything shattered around her. She bowed her head and sobbed, so loud she couldn't even hear the rest of his speculation. Then everything shifted, both outside of her and in as he pulled her up and into his lap. She felt another barrier come down as she melted into his embrace. He was warm and solid, and she felt protected for the first time in, well, years.

"You were going to use the hose in the car, weren't you?" he asked as he stroked her hair once her weeping had quieted.

"Yes," she hiccupped. "And the pills. Wanted to be sure."

"Oh, Kate. Why? Why would you do that to yourself? To everyone?"

She stiffened and tried to sit up. He wanted to know why, but not for himself. What was he doing here, anyway?

"You have no right to ask me that."

He pulled her back to his chest, her weakened state no match for his strength.

"I have every right. I love you. I have every right to ask."

She let the words sink in. She'd heard him, but they made no sense.

"You lo—love me? Why did you start avoiding me? I thought you hated me."

She felt him sigh, his breath ruffling her hair as she leaned against the support of his broad chest. If only this could all be real. If only she could believe in it.

"Yeah, well I thought you didn't love me. I heard you, you know."

She shook her head, confused.

"When you were interrogating Bobby, during the bombing case. I came in late to the precinct and you were already there, questioning him. I was in the observation room, admiring how good you are at your job. And then you said it. The words that pierced my chest, killed me on the spot."

She thought furiously about what she'd possibly said all those weeks ago that could have led to such a disaster for the two of them, when it finally came to her. Oh, God.

"You said that you remembered everything after your shooting. Everything. Which meant you knew how I felt about you. But then you lied to me, when I came to see you. And I just knew that meant that you didn't feel the same way. That you didn't want to tell me because it'd hurt me. So, you let me follow you around like a pathetic fool with nothing better…"

She wrested free of his embrace, sitting up so she could look in his eyes. "No! No, Rick. I didn't lie to you because I didn't love you. I lied to set you free."

His eyes were hooded, difficult to read. But for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw hope.

"To set me free? I don't understand."

"Yes. Don't you see? I'm broken. I'm a fucking mess. Everyone I've ever been close to has been hurt. I didn't want you to have to deal with it all. It's not fair. But I wanted to, oh, I wanted to. I just couldn't let you in when I was such a…a shattered soul. So, I started working with a therapist. Trying to get better for you. For us."

She reached out and traced his jawline with one finger, a careful caress to cement her words within him. He shut his eyes and heaved a sigh.

"So, you…you…like me? Some?"

"I don't like you, Rick." His eyes flew open, surprise and hurt now easily seen as she watched. Lightness began to grow within her—something that had been missing for weeks. She smiled at him, pouring some of her feelings into her expression. "I love you. I have for a long time. Longer than I want to admit to."

He smiled back, and more of the barriers between them dropped. But his smile slowly faded as she observed him, and darkness started to creep back inside.

"You love me, but you've planned to kill yourself, Kate. Help me understand. Please."

She couldn't look at him and speak at the same time, so she leaned against his chest again. His support enabled her to explain, as far as she could.

"I do love you, I do. But look what's happened. Everyone I love has been hurt. My mom, my dad. Roy. I survived my mom's murder, but I was still living in the shadows. You came along and lifted me out, reminded me about how wonderful the world could be."

She stroked his chest and imagined they were lying in bed, a couple in every sense. This was probably as close as she'd ever be to such a fantastic dream.

"I wanted to tell you, but I was so scared. Then, it all snapped the night you called me, drunk. I couldn't wait anymore. And it was wonderful—but you didn't say anything…weren't even there the next day. And when you came back, it was like you couldn't stand to stay in the same room."

He groaned, a deep and frustrated sound. "I honestly thought I'd just had a very realistic fantasy. I dreamt of you pretty much every night, anyway. And I couldn't face you after that. Every time I was in your presence, all I wanted to do was grab you and pull you into the nearest closet. You drive me wild, Kate, and I have trouble controlling myself."

Oh.

Oh! So different from what she'd imagined. She felt like crying; they'd been so stupid. "We were such fools, weren't we?"

"Yes, but we're here now, aren't we? We're here now, and it's not too late."

She wanted to embrace his words, believe in _them_ , but there was still more to discuss. A lot more.

"I was going to make you listen to me. I wanted to just start over, but then the bombing case happened and it was all hands on deck. No time for us to talk, so I thought, ok, Kate, you'll talk to him when we're finished. Figure it all out, then. I'd put in the work and felt I was ready. But, you pulled away. I know why, now, but it was devastating at the time."

She felt his head nodding, stroking her hair.

"I couldn't figure out why you were so cold to me; so different. We finished the case, and I was just gonna go for it, lay it all out. And you—you—."

"I went to Vegas and tried to forget you. I was determined to get you out of my mind, but it didn't work. Nothing I did—drinking, dating others—nothing worked."

"I fell back into that hole when you showed up with Jacinda. I knew you said you'd loved me, months earlier. Thought we'd agreed to wait while I got straightened out. I just—just saw that you were done waiting. That I wasn't worth it anymore."

A sob choked out, and he held her tighter.

"I was so angry at you, I tried to do anything I could to show you that I was over you. That I knew you didn't love me, so I was done trying to impress you. I felt like I'd been played like a fool. Turns out, the only fool was me."

"You said she was 'fun' and 'uncomplicated' when I asked about her, do you remember? Those two words cut me to the core. Two things I'll never be. I knew then that I'd never have you in my life. That it was over."

"Oh, Kate. She was so boring. Most of the time my mind kept drifting back to you, and I'd do something stupider trying to forget again. But she was never more than a distraction. She wasn't you."

"I just want to forget about her. I hated the sight of her. Kept imagining—well, I didn't have any right to tell you what to do, but it drove me insane thinking about the two of you."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered into her hair.

"I might've gotten through it, eventually. Not intact, but functional. But then…then…"

She couldn't say it, even now. A keening wail tore through her, as Rick rocked her in his arms.

"Don't you see? I'm so damaged I can't do anything right. I even killed our…our baby. No one should be around me. So, I'm gonna make sure the pain stops. That I can't hurt anyone, anymore. I just want it all to stop, can't you see?"

"Kate, it wasn't your fault. Not at all. And that's not how it works. You're in the vortex of it and can't see your way out, but think of the carnage you'd leave behind."

She flinched, his words wounding her. "What do you mean? You'd all go on, live happy lives without me here to bring you down."

"Do you really think that I'd be happy after you died? I _love_ you, Kate Beckett. If I have to live without you, then the rest of my life will be a shadow of what it would be with you still in it. What about your dad? Or Lanie? The boys? How could we be better off with you gone from our lives? It makes no sense."

She shook her head, still unable to understand his point.

"You're in this moment, and I know it's been so overwhelming. You've been alone, and you can't see past it, but I'm telling you, there will be other moments. Good moments. Great moments. And some sad, too, but that's life. It goes on and on and we get to ride it out, but it's never flat. It never just stays down. You'll come up again. I'll help you."

"I'll just drag you down again. I'm an anchor. A giant anchor."

"You do this, and I'll have to live with it forever. Your life ends, but mine will go on. It'd be part of my day, every _single_ day, can't you see that? I'd have to answer my own questions, like 'why wasn't I good enough to prevent this?' and 'what did _I_ do that made you do this?' There is _nothing_ great about suicide, and the impact goes on and on and on. Life _will_ get better, I promise you. You have to know that."

"But I'm so broken, Rick. Now more than ever after the baby. You can't want me in your life like this. I can't let you."

He pushed her up and caressed her cheek as he looked her in the eye. She could finally read his without any struggle.

"Kate, loving someone isn't contingent on whether they're happy, or healthy, or whatever. I love you for who you are, not what you're doing. I love your dedication, your empathy, your intelligence. If you love someone, it doesn't matter if they're depressed or angry or grieving. You just love them. And I love you, so deeply. Unequivocally, irrevocably. I'm yours."

Light suffused her, driving away the last of the dark as she drank in the love and happiness that he'd brought into her. She felt her soul lift and take flight, shedding the chains she'd weighed it down with for so long. He leaned in and kissed her, and she surrendered the last grip she'd had on her doubts and anxiety. With him by her side, she could go take a step forward.

He ended the kiss, but rested his forehead on hers. She felt warm and protected; safe. Just as in her dream.

"I won't be easy, you know that, right? I'll have to do more work, to make sure I don't end up here again. It might take a long time."

He kissed her again, a quick kiss that implied both love and support, then slid her off his lap and stood up, hand reaching down for hers.

"I can wait, Kate. No matter what you need. And in the end, we'll both know how far we've come. That we hit the bottom and fought our way back up. That's worth a lot, don't you think?"

She sat, quiet for a second as she thought about all that had happened since he'd called her that night. Then she lifted her head and smiled up at him as she took his hand.

 **The end.**

* * *

 **Thank you for sticking around to the end. While it's tempting to keep going and picture the events after this point, I felt this was a perfect place to stop. They're finally on the same page, they're communicating, and while Kate needs a** **lot** **of therapy, a happy ending is plausible at this point. However, I promised aussiecate double rainbows, so insert them here:_.**

 **Some of the language that Rick uses in this chapter to describe how he'd feel if she were to take her life was inspired by a very powerful interview that I listened to while writing this story. It was an interview of Robin Bailey, a radio star from Brisbane, Australia, whose husband, Tony Smart, killed himself in 2014. He left behind his wife and 3 sons. The interview was conducted some months later, and is absolutely striking at how frank she is about the subject and how his death has affected her and her children. I greatly admire her courage and her openness in discussing this terrible event.**

 **I would like to thank every person who PM'd me and told me about their own struggles with depression and suicide. It was an honor and a privilege to hear from both those who went through it personally and those whose immediate family members struggled with it. It's a difficult subject, and many people simply do not understand how profoundly severe depression leaches away your coping skills and how it affects your very thought process. This story attempts to describe this spiral. It was always about the journey that Kate took, and I'm proud that the people who've been in similar circumstances as Kate was shared with me that I got the feeling and mindset right.**

 **The pregnancy and subsequent loss was not a huge focus, but clearly had a profound impact on her mental health. For those wondering about ectopic pregnancy, she will still be fertile in the future. It is a very grave diagnosis, for if not caught in time can lead to death through hemorrhagic shock. If properly addressed, then very little impact is expected on the future ability to conceive. Pregnancy loss is a devastating event, in and of itself. I heard from a few who'd suffered through it, including someone who suffered an ectopic pregnancy. Such strong people in our fandom, it is amazing.**

 **Finally, thank you to all who stuck with me through this. It's not an easy subject to read about, and I know there were times that made you wonder where I was going with everything. I'm traveling all day again on the day that I publish this final chapter, so won't be able to respond to messages, but I certainly appreciate all the support and words of encouragement that I've received. Thanks especially to the people on twitter who propped me up one difficult night: ladies and gent, you're the bomb.**


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